


Dreams are Only Blue

by themetaphorgirl



Series: Dreams Are Only Blue [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, The Blakes adopt little Spencer Reid, William Reid's A+ parenting, this is the Spencer Blake AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphorgirl/pseuds/themetaphorgirl
Summary: AU. Nine-year-old Spencer Reid is brilliant, but he's too young to fully grasp the trauma threatening to bury him. Alex Blake buried her nine-year-old son and accepted that she just wasn't meant to be a mother. The BAU team takes on a case that ends up throwing them together, and Spencer is sent to live with Alex and her husband, and everything changes.(this is the Spencer Blake AU)
Relationships: Alex Blake & Spencer Reid, Alex Blake/James Blake, James Blake & Spencer Reid
Series: Dreams Are Only Blue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935466
Comments: 253
Kudos: 562





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted to ff.net under the name Keitorin Asthore

Her son died in September.

Her son died in September, in her arms, in their home. In the end he was ready to go, but she wasn't ready to say goodbye. She cradled him against her heart, her husband's arms wrapped around both of them, and even though she begged him to open his eyes, he never did.

They buried him on a rainy day, and that seemed right. The sky didn't deserve to be brilliant blue, the sun didn't deserve to shine. She was quiet at the wake, the funeral, the burial. The sky was gray and the trees were gray and she was gray, faded around the edges as rain soaked her hair and they placed her child alone in the ground. James clasped her hand, firm and secure, the only thing that seemed familiar and safe anymore.

It still didn't seem real. It didn't seem real at all. There were moments when she forgot, when she thought she ought to go check on him, or that today would be a nice day to take him to the park, or what book should she read to him next, Peter Pan or Matilda or maybe The Wizard of Oz?

And then it would all come crashing back down to her, crushing her under the weight, and she would have to stop and close her eyes and let everything shift back into place, everything a little sharper and a little colder and a little harsher than it was before.

Her world was words, but she lost them. Her world was empty now, and silent. Her books stayed closed on the shelf because there was no one to listen to her read. Cards and letters piled up, unopened, because she knew what they would say and she didn't want to hear it. The flowers her colleagues and her husband's coworkers sent stayed in their vases till they rotted, their soft scents turning sickly sweet with decay.

 _Time heals all wounds_ , she was told, and as time went on, her wounds were bandaged and covered, her grief palatable for the general public. She opened the cards and letters, checking only the names but not reading their contents. She threw away the flowers and gave the vases away. She sent thank you cards. She left the social media groups for parents of terminally children, deleted the computer files of sleepless midnight internet searches that were no longer needed. She put away the photos, keeping a single picture in her nightstand drawer, a picture the way she wanted to remember him.

James filled his emptiness with traveling. He went on leave with the hospital in DC and kissed her goodbye for the moment, finding places where he could help other people's children. He called her often, his love for her warm in his voice over the phone. When he came home there was sunshine again, a brightness and a lightness that she couldn't create alone, but she understood that he needed to find his own ways to grieve, and she kissed him goodbye over and over again with an unspoken understanding, knowing he would find home again.

She went back to teaching, lecturing twice a week. She found that she'd missed it, but it wasn't enough. There were too many gaps, too many silences, and no matter how many words she knew, how many languages she knew, there was no way to fill it.

The closed door on the first floor haunted her. No matter how she tried to keep away, it lingered in the back of her mind, even when she took down the drawings that she'd hung up for him so long ago. She never dared to open it, but on the nights she couldn't sleep she sometimes allowed herself to sink down to the floor and lean against the wall, her hands over her face, and stay there for hours, waiting for him to call for her through the closed door and know he never would.

* * *

His father left on a Tuesday.

He was a smart child. Everybody said so. He should have seen this coming. But he didn't.

His parents fought. They always fought. When he was little- smaller than he was now- they had the courtesy to put on a polite face until he went to bed. At night he fell asleep to the sounds of his parents screaming at each other in the living room, faintly muffled by the closed door and the blankets pulled over his head.

 _Mommy is sick_ , his father told him when he was five years old, but he already knew that. He read it in a book somewhere- _you always know after you are two., two is the beginning of the end._ And he was two years old, just shy of three, when his mother placed him in his high chair and then forgot he was there, leaving him alone in the house to scream himself hoarse while she ran errands that she'd run the day before and tried to teach a class that wasn't scheduled for that afternoon.

That just happened sometimes. She would forget things, or vanish for a few hours, or lose her temper. That was all right. He knew she loved him.

He wasn't as sure that his father loved him. It was harder to see. His father tried, at least when he was younger. He was proud of him then. When they had neighborhood barbecues his father would pull down law books for him to read aloud like a party trick. His father coached his T-ball team, even though he was the littlest on the team and cried when fastballs whizzed past his head. He attended parent-teacher conferences when his mother couldn't ( _"I just can't leave the house today, I just can't!"_ ) and picked him up from school when his mother forgot ( _"I thought it was Saturday, I genuinely did!"_ ) but his father's good graces didn't last forever. His love was conditional, and he did not meet the terms.

His father came home later and later, until some nights he never left the office. Weekends were silent affairs, his mother swallowed up in books and his father finding every reason to make himself scarce.

Even through this, he never thought his father would actually _leave_.

He left not with a bang or even a whimper. Just a quiet resolution. Like his mind had been made up long ago, and he'd simply bided his time for the right moment.

He watched it happen, watched his parents become strangers before his very eyes, blurting out statistics because it was safer than to say _don't make things change_ and _I'm afraid_ and _what will happen to me now?_

The fear coiling in his chest grew fingers and clenched his heart when his mother spoke.

_You could take Spencer with you. Just for a little while._

He knew a lot of things, but he didn't know his own mother didn't want to be responsible for him until that moment.

And his father said nothing. His father didn't want to be responsible for him either.

It was the first time that he truly realized that his parents were fallible, because even though he was smart ( _"your son is a prodigy, the brightest child his age that I've ever met"_ ) he still held the childish belief that his parents were perfect.

So his father left, and his mother went into her room and shut the door, and as his childish faith cracked it left its mark behind. The beginning of the end.

He went into the backyard, alone. There was almost no grass to speak of, the remainder barren and sharp, the ground still hot in the early autumn weather. He laid down, his arms stretched over his head, staring at the cloudless blue sky, listening to the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. There was a shift in his equilibrium, as if the world had been pulled out from under him and he was floating weightless and lost, alone in the universe, and no one would ever bring him down to safety again.

" _It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."_


	2. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex starts her new job at the BAU, hiding her grief as best as she can. Spencer starts a new life in a new city with his mother, even if he doesn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for carsickness/vomiting

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

The schoolbus spat him out at the end of his block and he stumbled down the steps, his backpack weighing him down. He'd checked out as many books as possible to get him through the weekend, and the anticipation was worth the effort.

His house stood out like an eyesore on the neat little cul-de-sac. Thank goodness they didn't have an HOA, or they might possibly be in trouble. The yard was unkempt, the stucco walls were stained, and the mailbox still stood cock-eyed after the last time his mother had backed into it with the station wagon.

He turned his key in the lock and opened the door. "Mom?" he called.

The house was silent, but that didn't worry him as much as the sudden wall of heat. He winced as he hung his key on the hook. Maybe the air conditioner had gone out again.

"Mom, the AC isn't working," he said, his voice bouncing off the walls. Maybe she wasn't home. It was one of her office hours days, after all. Maybe she felt well enough to go into work.

He set his backpack down in the hall, propping it up against the doorway, and stepped on it carefully to make himself tall enough to see the thermostat. The screen didn't display anything, and he stuck out his lower lip. There was definitely some kind of issue, and even in the early spring it was too hot to go without air conditioning.

He hopped down, almost tripping over his untied shoelaces, and wandered the house in search of his mother. Dirty dishes and takeout containers littered the kitchen counters; the massive crack in the dusty television screen in the living room distorted his reflection. But no sign of his mother still.

"Mom?" he called again. His voice seemed muffled in the thick hot air. He attempted to open one of the living room windows, just for some kind of safe air flow, but the latch was rusted shut and the sash was too heavy, so he gave up.

His mother's office seemed untouched- the keyboard still missing from the computer, papers stacked in piles on the desk and the floor, multiple cups of half-drunk coffee with mold beginning to gather on their surfaces. His last hope was her bedroom. Usually he found her there, lying in bed in the same clothes she put on three days ago, sleeping with books piled haphazardly around her, the curtains closed to keep out any vestiges of light. But she wasn't there either.

He wandered back into the hall, fingers tangling in the hem of his tee shirt. "Mommy?" he called.

It was dark in the hallway and he reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. He toggled it a couple of times. Absolutely nothing.

They'd shut off the power again.

He went back into his mother's room in search of her purse. There was no luck there, but he kept looking and eventually found her wallet squished between couch cushions.

The mail was harder to find. Letters and bills and catalogues piled up over weeks and months, covering the kitchen table and leeching onto the chairs, some of them unreadable after falling victim to spills and trash. But he dug out a bill from the electric company, and after checking for the correct account number he took his key and let himself out of the house.

It was still hot and bright outside, and his right sneaker rubbed a sore spot in his heel. His sneakers were getting a little too tight. He might need a new pair, but he wasn't sure how to bring that up to his mother. There was no telling how she might respond.

His walk took him several blocks out of his neighborhood and out onto the main road. The late afternoon sunshine baked deep into the asphalt of the road and concrete of the sidewalk, radiating into the worn-thin soles of his shoes. Here and there the sidewalk gave out, falling into patches of thin grass and gravel before picking up again. Cars shot past him, speeding on the quiet two lane road of the suburb, their heat catching at his skin.

There was a single working payphone at the gas station on the corner, the base overgrown with sparse crawling weeds and the receiver threatening to break off at the frayed cord. He opened up Diana's wallet and selected the correct number of coins, dropping them one by one with satisfying clinks, and dialed the number printed on the bottom of the bill.

At least the bill payment number was automated; there wasn't a chance of an adult picking up and asking him too many questions about why an eight-year-old was calling. He balanced the paper bill and the slippery credit card and stretched high enough to punch the right numbers in the correct orders. Once he had to add more coins into the slot; he had just enough to keep the call going.

He held his breath as he waited for the confirmation that the payment would process. The bill was higher than it was the last time he paid, and he wasn't sure how much was left on the credit card. But it went through, and he exhaled deeply in relief. The power probably wouldn't come back on until the next day, but at least it would be fixed.

He slid the credit card back into its slot in the wallet and hung up the receiver, wiping his small palms on his shorts. The air was cooler now that he was making his trek home, but it was darker and harder to see. At one point he tripped over a crack in the old sidewalk that he couldn't see properly, and he sat on the ground for a moment with the wind knocked out of his lungs, his palms and knees scraped hot and raw.

He half hoped to see his mother at the house by the time he got there, but he unlocked the door to unnerving silence. The light switch still didn't work, and neither did the air conditioning. If the power still didn't work by the next day, he'd have to make the hike and call again.

He put his mother's wallet back carefully where he found it. Most likely she would have no idea he'd even touched it.

He pried off his sneakers, careful around the sore bleeding spots on his heels, and dug out the flashlight he kept under his pillow for reading at midnight. It didn't do too much to light the small bathroom, but it was enough for him to take a shower, wincing under the spluttering cold spray and rinsing away the grunge from his school day and his long walk.

He dressed in his pajamas and tucked himself into bed with one of his library books and the flashlight. It was a book he'd already read half a dozen times, in this exact same edition- David Copperfield, a hardback with the spine threatening to crack, the typeface warm and homey and familiar.

_My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden._

He paused. He thought he could hear Diana's key in the lock, and he sat up, listening closely. But it was nothing. She still wasn't home yet. He went back to reading.

' _David,' he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, 'if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?'_

' _I don't know.'_

' _I beat him.'_

_I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now._

' _I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, "I'll conquer that fellow"; and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do it. What is that upon your face?'_

' _Dirt,' I said._

_He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so._

' _You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,' he said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, 'and you understood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me.'_

This time he was sure he heard his mother. He slipped out of bed and crept down the hall, clutching the flashlight, aiming its beam at the floor in an unconscious childish belief that perhaps there was something lurking in the doorways, waiting for him. He made it all the way down to the small foyer, the walls seeming higher and the ceiling seeming father away. Moonlight and streetlight blurred together, casting long squares of pale light through the windows onto the floor.

Diana wasn't home.

He went back to bed again, crawling under the blankets for safety even though it was too warm, tucking the flashlight between his chin and shoulder so he could see the pages.

_I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress; but I groped my way out, and groped my way up to my room in the dark, without even having the heart to say good night to Peggotty, or to get a candle from her._

He struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open. Without the clock on his nightstand running, he wasn't entirely sure about what time it was, but he tried so hard to stay awake, time stretching between each sleepy blink.

The next time he opened his eyes, his book had slipped from his fingers and his sheets were tangled tight around his legs, as if he'd been thrashing around in his sleep. The air conditioning clunked and chugged in the vent above his head, and he could smell the sharp acrid scent of coffee (strong and burnt, the way his mother liked it) and he could hear the muffled mumble-and-pause Diana arguing on the phone. He sank back, staring at his ceiling in relief. Everything was fine now.

* * *

Alex stood by the elevator, shoulders squared, her bag held tight and calm in her hands. Her first day at the BAU would end as soon as she left the building, and then she could allow herself to exhale in relief.

Garcia rushed past her in a rush of a hot pink dress and coconut and sandalwood perfume, then halted abruptly, her heels skidding on the polished floor. "Agent Blake!" she said. "Dr. Blake. Professor Blake?"

"Alex is fine," she said, smiling.

"How was your first day?" Garcia asked. "Everything good? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah...everything's been great," Alex reassured her.

Garcia smiled at her, eyes bright behind her neon blue glasses. "Good!" she said. She tilted her head, questioning and sympathetic. "And I'll...I'll see you soon?"

Alex's mouth went dry. "I'll see you soon," she confirmed. Garcia beamed at her and skittered away.

The elevator doors pinged cheerfully and slid open, but before she could make a break for it, Rossi sidled up to her. "You on your way out too?" he asked. She nodded as she stepped inside; Rossi pressed the lobby button. "It's been a long time since you've been back in Quantico. How old were you the first time you came here? Twenty-five?"

She smiled. "Twenty-four," she said. "The ink had barely dried on my diplomas."

"You're still the youngest agent we've had here," Rossi said. "Nobody's broken your record yet."

"Oh, but I was probably too young to be here, looking back," she said. "I remember people staring at me on my first day. They kept asking where Dr. Miller was, and no one was expecting to see me."

Rossi laughed. "I still remember the first time Gideon called you in to consult for us," he said. "Didn't he ask you to get us coffee while we waited for Dr. Miller to arrive?"

"He most certainly did," Alex said, half smiling. "He...didn't seem particularly impressed by me in the beginning."

"But he changed his tune eventually," Rossi said. "You know he fought to get your demotion reversed after Strauss-"

His voice trailed off. She said nothing. They both knew what he wasn't going to mention- Strauss lying to protect herself and throwing Alex under the bus after the Amerithrax case went wrong, how she stepped back from field agent work in order to start her family. How her family ended.

"How's James doing?" Rossi asked instead.

"He's great, he's really great," Alex said. "He's doing really well with Doctors Without Borders. They're about to send him to Senegal, actually. I tried to help him with his French, but you know how he is with languages. He might be a lost cause."

"Oh, you might be right about that," Rossi said. "But you and Emily Prentiss should chat, she's got quite a few languages under her belt herself." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "It's a good team. I think you'll be a good fit. We've been needing someone with your kind of brain power."

"Well, I'm glad to be here," she said.

The doors slid open and Rossi let her step out into the lobby first. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said.

She waved her goodbye and headed towards the doors. Early spring in Virginia was still a bit cold, the trees still barren and the grass still brittle. She pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her and exhaled slowly as she started down the steps.

"Agent Blake?"

She froze at the familiar voice, but she turned around with a tight smile. "Erin Strauss," she said, keeping her voice light.

Strauss stood at the top of the concrete steps. She hadn't changed much in the past ten years. Maybe a few more lines around the eyes, and her hair was cut differently, but her eyes were still a little too sharp. "I heard you were starting today," she said. "It's been a while."

"It has," Alex said stiffly. "It took a while to get back here. A lot of hard work."

She wanted to say _after you derailed my career in the first place,_ but maybe that wasn't entirely appropriate at the moment.

"I'm sure you've earned it," Strauss said. She tilted her head, and Alex braced herself. "And I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry for your loss, Alex, I-"

"It's nice to see you again, Erin," Alex lied, the words sharp and clipped, and she turned and walked away, her shoes grinding into the asphalt, before the heaviness threatening in her chest had the chance to burst out.

She made it to her car, unlocking the door and calmly placing her bag on the passenger seat, but as soon as she sat down and closed the door, she sank down, her shoulders hunching, her hands covering her face. For a while she sat in the stifling stale air, the silence thick, her heartbeat skipping and jumping.

She let her mind quiet down, let the stress fall from her tight shoulders and the tension drain from her clenched jaw. Time passed, the late afternoon light shifting and dimming, and finally she turned her key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot.

She met James for dinner, and if he noticed that her eyes were a little red and her voice was a little quiet, he said nothing about it, but he held her hand a little tighter and kissed her a little more carefully. Their conversations stayed light, and neither of them ate much.

They drove separately, but she knew she couldn't keep sitting in her car, dreading to get out. If she didn't leave her car, James wouldn't either, and if he didn't leave, she wouldn't either, and so they parked next to each other and walked into the community center together, their hands clasped, his strong fingers laced through hers.

It had been a while since they'd been here, but it made her heart squeeze with anxiety every time they walked through the doors. James got them coffee while she wrote their names on sticky nametags in her clear handwriting. She didn't want coffee, but it gave her something to fixate on, and he knew that, and she appreciated it.

"So you're sure Alex is still okay?"

She turned around. Penelope smiled at her, her pink lipstick still perfect and her blue glasses making her eyes look more vivid. "Definitely still okay," she said. "But you can call me Blake in the office like everyone else does, if you'd like."

"Oh, we'll see, we'll see," Penelope said. She squeezed her arm lightly. "I'm glad you're here, Alex."

"Me too," she said softly, and she was surprised to find that she meant it. Penelope gave her another loving little squeeze before flitting away to the next person walking through the doors.

She and James ended up in their usual seats, coffee cups balanced in their hands, his arm around her shoulder and her free hand resting on his thigh. He was warm and sturdy and reassuring beside her, his thumb rubbing lightly against her shoulder. She allowed herself to breathe.

Penelope started the meeting, her usually perky voice a little softer in the hush of the room. She introduced herself first, sketching out the details of her story, and turned to the next person.

When it was their turn she looked up at James, and he understood. "I'm James, and this is my wife, Alex," he said, still keeping up the firm gentle touch of his hand curved around her shoulder. "About a year and a half ago, we lost our son, Ethan, to an undiagnosed neurological condition. He was nine years old, and he was our only child."

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, looking down at the chips in the polished floor. It never got easier. And at this point, she didn't think it ever would.

* * *

Spencer's mouth dropped open. The front door hung wide open, dangling cock-eyed from a broken hinge. His mother's old station wagon blocked the driveway, the doors open and the back hatch lifted. Cardboard boxes and old luggage piled up on the ground, the car half-packed.

Diana stormed out of the house, her arms laden down. "Spencer, good, you're home from school," she said. "Help me get the rest of this into the car."

"What's going on?" he asked. "Are we going somewhere?"

She shoved a crumbled cardboard box into the trunk. "We're going to start over, baby," she said. "We're going to move."

"Move where?" he asked, gripping the straps of his backpack.

"I'm taking a sabbatical from the university," she said. "I'm tired of teaching. I want to write. I want to write another book. Won't that be nice, baby?" She pinched his chin in her hand and kissed him. "Mommy can be home with you more."

"But why aren't you going to write the book here?" he pressed. "Where are we going?"

"We're moving!" she said cheerfully. She picked up an old suitcase and heaved it into the backseat. "Come on, Spencer, let's go."

"Go _where_ , Mom?" he burst out.

"Washington DC," she said. "A friend of mine at Howard University found us a place to stay, and I'll be able to do my research there. We'll come back here to Vegas eventually, but I think we could use a nice change of pace. We'll get there just before the cherry blossoms start blooming. Won't that be lovely?"

"I have school tomorrow," he said in a small voice. "I have a social studies test."

Diana kept packing the car. "You'll start a new school," she said. "Won't that be nice? It'll be a fresh start. A brand new school. New classmates. Now stop fussing and get in the car."

He didn't want a fresh start. He didn't want a new school. He didn't want new classmates. He didn't want any of this. It felt like the soles of his shoes had melted into the driveway.

"I don't want to go," Spencer objected.

Diana slammed the hatch of the station wagon and took him by the shoulder. "Spencer, I'm not asking you, I'm your mother and I'm telling you," she said. "Get in the car. I've already packed your stuff. We need to go, we have a long way to drive."

"But Mommy-"

She gave him a little shake, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. "Don't make me say it again!" she said. "Get in the car, now!"

He climbed slowly into the backseat, setting his backpack at his feet and pulling the seatbelt across his chest. It sat too high on his little body, cutting across his throat. The car was piled high with boxes and suitcases and books, threatening to topple over onto his side of the car. Diana threw her purse onto the stack of possessions in the front seat and put the car in reverse without bothering to fasten her seatbelt.

Spencer gazed up at the house where he had spent the first eight years of his life. It was shabby and unkempt, but it was home. He wanted to ask his mother when they might be back, but he wasn't sure if it was a safe time to ask questions.

Diana drove too fast like she always did, fiddling with the cracked radio knobs as they passed in and out of signal. Spencer dug around in his backpack for a book to read, trying to make himself comfortable.

But he ran out of books, and he was left staring blankly out the window. The vast desert stretched out on either side of the interstate, the horizon unbroken for miles. His vision faded in and out of focus, messing with his head.

For the first time in a long time, he wished he still had his blanket. It used to be the only way he could fall asleep when his parents kept him up late arguing, the only thing that kept him from getting too anxious when he was left alone at home. But after his fifth birthday his dad had lost his temper and told him he was too old for this nonsense, and he'd thrown it away. He was fine without it, of course, but right now the world seemed shaky around him, and he didn't know how to find solid ground again.

The station wagon bumped over a bad pothole and he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Staring out the window was a bad idea. A headache was beginning to pulse at his temples, and his stomach turned upside down. It was so hot in the backseat of the over-crammed car, without a clear vent close enough to cool him down.

"Mom?" he ventured. "Can we take a break?"

She ignored him. She drove with one hand on the wheel, her seat leaned back, her right hand dangling against the half crumpled pack of cigarettes in the cupholder as if she wasn't sure if she wanted one or not. Her sadness hung around her, sour and palpable, and Spencer let his head fall back against the seat, his eyes sliding shut.

The inside of the car smelled like gasoline and stale cigarette smoke and spoiled coffee and old french fries and it did nothing to help the nausea pulsing under his ribs. He fumbled to roll down the window, shivering at the sudden breeze.

"Close that up," Diana said sharply. "I don't want anything to get in here."

"But Mom-"

"Close it."

He obeyed. The car seemed hotter now, the smells stronger, the seatbelt pulling too tightly across his chest and his little shoulders. The worn-out shocks made the car shake as the wheels churned over the interstate, tossing him slightly, and the back of his throat burned.

"Mom?" he ventured. "I don't think I feel very good. I think I'm carsick."

She didn't answer.

Tears smarted behind his eyes. "Mommy, I'm going to be sick," he said. "Can you pull over, please?"

"Not now, Spencer," she said absently. She leaned her elbow on the door and rested her cheek on her hand. "We have a while to go yet."

"I'm going to throw up," he said, his chest heaving. "Mommy, I'm going to throw up."

"Stop whining!" she said. "Jesus, can you just _stop_?"

He lurched forward and vomited down his front. "Mommy!" he sobbed, pulling at his shirt. "I don't feel good! I want to stop!"

Diana smacked the steering wheel. "Will you please shut up?" she shouted. "I'm trying to drive, Spencer, stop trying to distract me!"

He curled into himself, sobbing into his hands, trying to swallow down the sound. Acid burned in the back of his throat and stung his mouth. Diana kept driving, her heel jammed into the gas pedal, and the radio crackled and popped, interrupting the calm conversations of NPR. He didn't dare speak.

The sun had long since set when the car finally stopped. Diana pulled the car into a space in a cheap motel, humming cheerfully under her breath. She went inside and left him alone. He kept his breathing shallow, his shirt dried stiff against his skin. It was still too warm and he felt sticky and wobbly.

He heard Diana's tuneless humming and her shoes crunching on the gravel before she reached the car and opened the passenger door. "Come on, baby, we're gonna get a little rest before we start driving again in the morning," she said. "Hurry up, out of the car, come on."

He raised his head, squinting in the brightness of the parking lot lights. Diana gasped. "Oh, sweetheart, did you get sick?" she asked. "My poor baby, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something?" She unbuckled his seatbelt and hoisted him out of the backseat. His knees buckled as she set him on his feet. "We'll get you cleaned up and you can go right to bed, okay?"

"Okay," he rasped. She took his hand and he leaned into her side as they walked to their motel room. Her thumb ran lightly over his small fingers, and he allowed himself to take a deep breath in the cool night air. She was herself again, and he was going to be fine now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY FUCKING HEART YOU GUYS
> 
> The beginning to this fic is a little slow. I have to lay a lot of groundwork for this one to make sense!! Alex is still actively grieving for Ethan and she needs to be in a place where she's ready to think about having another child in her life, and Spencer is still blindly loyal to Diana even though she's not in a place where she can care for him. So there's a lot of angst in the beginning, but I swear it'll be worth it!!
> 
> Special thanks to Maddy (cowgiwowgi) and Brenna (thesassprincess) for being my test audience, and Bee (linguinereid) for the Latin!! I'm themetaphorgirl on tumblr if you'd like to chat!!


	3. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer makes it to Washington DC, but life isn't any better than it was before. James asks Alex an important question.

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

They did make it to DC before the cherry blossoms bloomed. Unfortunately, he was allergic.

Spencer sniffled, scrunching his nose as he kept working on his vocabulary worksheet. His mother had been wrong about his new school being a fresh start. McKinley Elementary was somehow even larger than his school back home in Las Vegas, and third grade was just as frustrating and boring here as it was before. He'd had high hopes when Diana took him along to enroll him- it was a big campus, and they seemed to have a nice library, and at first he harbored the hope that he'd find a friend or two.

Instead he slipped through the cracks. Once the initial novelty of a new student wore off, it was like nobody even noticed him. And none of his teachers seemed to acknowledge how bored he was, and how his schoolwork was too easy for him. At least his old teachers used to give him extra credit work to do, or more difficult books to read. Here he was lucky if they remembered his name correctly on the first try.

The bell rang and he jumped. "Make sure your parents sign your homework folders," the teacher called. Spencer bit his lip as he slid his workbooks into his backpack. He needed to practice his mother's signature more, make sure it was perfect. Just so nobody would ask questions.

He picked up his hoodie from his labeled hook at the back of the room. April was still cold and wet, and to be quite honest the hoodie wasn't enough to keep him warm, much less safe from the rain. But it was better than nothing. His small collection of shorts and tee shirts from Vegas were not well suited to this new climate, and he was already anxious about what winter was going to be like, if they were still there by then.

He tagged along at the end of the line as the rest of the third grade class filed out into the hallway, his hoodie still unzipped and his backpack hanging on one shoulder. Half the class was diverted towards the bus; the other half was sent to the playground for the aftercare program. He zipped up his hoodie as he trailed behind the rest of the aftercare kids, wincing at the sudden rush of cool damp air.

His mother had been so pleased about their new apartment and how close it was to his new elementary school. "I'll walk you to school in the mornings," she had promised. "And I'll come get you too! Every day. It'll be nice, won't it?"

And so she had blithely signed him up for aftercare _("just in case I'm running late, just in case")_ and didn't sign the form allowing him to take the bus, but she never came on time. In the mornings he usually walked himself to school, but he couldn't be dismissed from campus without an adult picking him up, and he couldn't take the bus without Diana signing the correct forms. Liability and all that. It made sense, he supposed, but it didn't make it any easier.

The other kids darted onto the playground, kicking up wet mulch as they ran to the coveted spots on the swings and the playscape and the merry-go-round. Spencer wandered over to the old monkey bars, a sad splintering structure with dark green paint chipping off the wood frame and rust darkening the metal. He set his backpack down on the ground and pulled out his latest book, then started the unsteady climb to the top with it tucked under one arm. It wasn't easy, and he was arguably the least athletic kid in his class, but he struggled to the top, settling himself with his short legs dangling over the side, and turned pages in search of his last stopping point.

He'd discovered quickly that the old monkey bars were the safest place to be on the playground. His new classmates played too rough; they were too loud and chaotic and it made him anxious. So far he hadn't made any new friends, and he wasn't particularly optimistic that that would change any time soon.

He balanced himself carefully, his narrow shoulders curving forward, and placed his book open on his knees. The McKinley library was large, yes, but the books were mostly donations and mostly in poor shape. There were plenty of Babysitters Club and Hardy Boys and Boxcar Children, but those didn't keep his attention. He'd dug out an old pulp paperback of Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, the cover heavily creased with white lines and torn in the corner. It wasn't his favorite- he much preferred Wells over Verne- but it was still a good book, and the brittle yellow pages had that warm aged smell of old massmarket paper. He rested his chin in his hand and turned pages, and when he finished, he started it over again.

He didn't notice his mother approach until she was just below the structure. "How'd you get up there, Crash?" she asked, peering up at him with her hands in the pockets of her cardiagn. "And with a book in your hand, too? Oh my god, you'll be trying out for the soccer team next."

Spencer beamed. She was having a good day. "It's hard getting up here, but it's worth it," he said. He handed Diana the book and swung himself down carefully, wincing when he landed awkwardly in the damp mulch and sharp spiky pains ran up through his ankles. "How did your writing go today?"

"Wonderfully," she said. He picked up his backpack, and when she held out her hand he grabbed it eagerly. Her fingers were ice cold and he squeezed tight. "I might need to go to one of the libraries downtown this weekend. That'll be nice, right?"

"Uh-huh," he said.

She hadn't been this talkative in a while and he relished in it, picking up his pace to keep up with her long strides as they made the walk home. Taking her sabbatical from the university and focusing on her book did seem to make a difference in her. Maybe even the move helped- maybe the climate was better for her than the hot desert. He wasn't sure, but he knew that he'd do anything for her to be better.

Their apartment complex wasn't the nicest, but it wasn't the worst. Diana walked him up the uneven wooden stairs and jiggled the key in the lock. There wasn't much to make the apartment seem homey or personal- mostly just stacks of books. The walls were beige and the carpet gray; it came pre-furnished with a few standard issue items. It was only a one bedroom, so the living room couch was Spencer's bed by default. He set his backpack down on the floor and sat down on the floor to take off his shoes.

"What should we do for dinner?" she asked. "Do you want order something? We haven't gotten pizza in a while."

They'd had pizza on Sunday night. "If you want to, Mom," he said.

"I think that'll be nice," Diana said, wandering towards the bedroom. "I'll call."

Spencer sat up slowly. There was a strange smell in the air, something heavy and metallic, and his stomach twisted. He crept towards the kitchen, then ran as he saw the smoke billowing from the pot on the stove. "Mom!" he called, stretching up on his toes to switch off the burner. "Mom, come here!"

He managed to shut it off, then moved the pot aside and threw the lid on top. It did nothing to alleviate the smell of smoke, but at least the odds of the kitchen catching completely on fire had dropped drastically. "Mommy, come here!" he shouted.

"What?" she shouted back.

"The stove...something was burning!" he said.

Diana looked into the kitchen and burst out laughing. "Dammit!" she said. "Oh, damn. I totally forgot, didn't I?"

She lifted the lid and Spencer winced. Luckily any flames had been extinguished, and Diana stood there laughing with the charred lid in her hand. "I was going to make dinner tonight, wasn't I?" she said. She tossed the lid in the sink. "Oh, well. I'll just order pizza. We haven't had pizza in a while."

They'd had pizza on Sunday night. Why didn't she remember that?

"Uh-huh," he said. The bottom of the pot was seared black on the outside, probably rendered unusable, and Diana ruffled his hair with her soot-covered hand.

* * *

"I think we made some good headway today," Hotch said as they walked down the hotel hallway. "Everybody, get some rest. We'll start fresh in the morning."

Alex exhaled deeply as she slid the hotel keycard in the lock. The jet had landed early in Montana early in the morning and the entire day had been nonstop movement. At this point she was so tired she wasn't even hungry.

JJ yawned behind her as they walked into the room and flipped on the lights. "Oh my god, I'm exhausted," she said. "Did Hotch say what time we needed to be back at the precinct in the morning?"

"Eight thirty, I think," Alex said. She slid off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. "It doesn't seem that early, but I have a feeling it'll sneak up on us."

JJ laughed. "I think you're right about that," she said. She rubbed her eyes, smearing some of her mascara. "Do you mind if I shower first? I feel disgusting."

"No, no, not at all," Alex said.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," JJ said, rummaging through her go bag for her clothes before disappearing into the bathroom.

Alex took off her shoes, leaving them beside the dresser, and dug out an elastic to tie her hair back in a slightly askew ponytail. She checked the time on her phone. It was early, but not too early. He wouldn't mind.

She sat down on the edge of the bed; James picked up on the third ring. "Hey, beautiful," he said, sounding a little sleepy, but still as crystal clear as if he was in the room with her. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," she said, smiling as she crossed her free arm over her stomach. "We're in the middle of nowhere in Montana."

"Ah, sounds spectacular," he said. "You doing okay? Getting enough sleep? It has to be late over there."

"Just a bit past eleven," she said. "What's it for you? Five?"

"A bit past five," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I was already awake. They're keeping me busy, don't worry."

"We both do best when we're keeping busy," she said. It was an attempt at a joke, but there was a brief heavy pause before he changed the subject.

They talked back and forth for a while, their topics roaming freely. It was something she'd always appreciated, how she could talk to him about anything and everything and nothing ever felt forced, ever felt like an imposition. She suddenly missed him so much it hurt, the pain constricting in her lungs like a physical blow.

"I miss you," she said suddenly, in the middle of his story about the small town he was staying in.

James paused. "I miss you," he said. "I'll be home in a few weeks."

She dragged her fingertip along a taut stitched seam on the slick hotel quilt. "I can't wait," she said.

He cleared his throat. "I have to go pretty soon, but...there's been something that...well, I wanted your thoughts on it," he said. "Just...to make sure we're on the same page."

"Of course," she said. Something told her this was a serious question. She glanced towards the bathroom, then slipped out through the sliding glass doors to the small balcony. "What's on your mind?"

He was silent for a moment. She crossed her free arm tighter over her stomach; the late May breeze was a lot colder than she expected. "I wanted to ask you this, just to make sure," he said softly. "Have you...have you thought at all about if...you'd like to try for another baby?"

Ice cold terror crashed over her like a wave. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

They had always planned on having more children. When Ethan's first birthday passed they started talking about trying for another baby, keeping their children close in age. But before he was two, everying shifted, and their lives focused on keeping their son alive.

She'd read it in a book before- _two is the beginning of the end._

"Alex?"

Pregnancy had been tough, but she'd loved it- her growing belly, the baby kicking against her ribs, the naive contentment when she thought about what it would be like to have her healthy baby placed in her arms.

"Alex?"

They'd missed so many signs, so many little moments, until he had his first seizure. And then the symptoms had piled up, threatening to topple over and crush them, and there was never a name for it. Not one name, at least. Over and over again they were given a diagnosis, a treatment plan, a path forward, and over and over again it was taken away. Repeat, repeat, repeat, until there was no path forward left, no labels left to be placed.

"Alex, love, are you still there?"

"I can't," she whispered. "I...I can't go through with it again."

"Okay," he said immediately. "Okay, I…" He sighed, heavy and crackling around the edges, and she could hear the burden lifting from him. "That's what I thought too. I just...needed to hear you say it."

She nodded even though he couldn't see her. A stray tear escaped and she dashed it away quickly. They weren't able to confirm a genetic component, but all signs pointed to it, and she couldn't bear to bring another child into the world knowing she would have to say goodbye so soon.

"I love you," she said fiercely.

"I love you too," he said. "Hey, I...I can probably leave at least a week early. I could be back by the second week of June. Would you-"

"Yes," she said. "I'd love that."

"Okay," he said. "I'll work that out. I've got to go, but...I love you, Alex. I'll be home soon. Stay safe."

"You too," she said. "Bye."

He said his goodbyes and she ended the call. Her hands were shaking, but she wasn't sure if it was just the late spring chill in the air. The expanse of night sky seemed too bright, pinpointed with stars that stayed invisible in the city, and the wind bit at her exposed skin. She closed her eyes and breathed through it. It stung, but the cold kept her grounded, kept her mind from wandering too far.

After a while she went back inside, her phone clutched in her cold stiff grip, and closed the door behind her. JJ sat cross-legged on the bed, her freshly washed hair damp around her shoulders. She held her phone up so she could see the screen, and Alex could hear a childish voice squeaking.

"You went to the park?" JJ was saying. "Oh, that's so cool. Did you have a good time? Were you good for Daddy?" She paused. "Will, was he dressed warmly enough? He's been going through this phase where he won't wear his coat…"

Alex could hear Will answer in his slow syrupy drawl. JJ leaned away from the phone. "I'm so sorry, I'll be off in a second," she whispered.

"Don't worry about it," Alex said. She dug through her suitcase for her things as JJ turned back to her husband and son.

"Yes, baby, Mama will be home soon," JJ said. "I promise, Henry. Do you want me to read you a bedtime story? It's so late, you need to go to bed."

Alex went into the bathroom and closed the door before setting her things down in methodical order. With the fan on, she couldn't hear the conversation anymore, and there was no one to see another stubborn tear drip off her cheek. This time she didn't bother trying to wipe it away.

* * *

It didn't take very long to clean out his desk. His classmates had a full school year's worth of junk- homework and sticker backings and forgotten snack wrappers and crayons with the paper half ripped off. He'd only been here for two months, and all he had was a couple of secondhand folders and some broken pencils. So he sat quietly while everyone else shrieked and threw things at each other, picking at the nametag attached to his desktop with contact paper, his name written _Spencer Reed_ in that ubiquitous tall teacher handwriting.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do over the summer. His mother had been swallowed up by her research. She rarely emerged from the bedroom now; the apartment's single bed was covered in stacks of books and ripped pages from yellow legal pads. For hours she sat there chainsmoking, tapping her pencil rhythmically against the paper, mumbling under her breath as she read her work aloud and tried out different word choices. Usually he left her alone. She took her writing seriously. She didn't like distractions. He understood that.

His teacher tapped his shoulder and he jumped. "Go get in line," she said. "Do you have all your things?"

He nodded, picking up his backpack. Most of the other kids had been given plastic garbage bags to carry their possessions home, but now that he'd returned all his books to the school library he had plenty of room.

Outside it was hot and humid, moisture pricking at his skin. Vegas was hotter, much hotter, but he still hadn't adjusted to the dampness that seemed to perpetually hang in the air. He hesitated as he approached the playground. All of his books had been returned, and now he wasn't sure what to do without something to read.

He glanced over at the nicer part of the playground. Maybe, since it was the last day of school and all, he would try to play.

He slipped past a couple of fourth graders and set his backpack down by the big fancy metal playscape, then started pulling himself up on the monkey bars. It was a lot higher than the old wooden one he usually claimed and his muscles ached as he climbed.

"Hey! We were playing on that!"

He looked down, his arms straining with effort. A couple of fifth graders glared up at him, arms crossed. "I got here first," he said, perplexed.

"We claimed it! We always claim it!" one of them argued.

Something hot burned in his chest and he pulled himself the rest of the way up, wrapping his arms around the pole. "Why can't I be up here too?" he asked. "I'm not hurting anything. There's plenty of room."

The biggest kid grabbed him by the ankle and yanked.

Spencer fell hard, tumbling down into the splintery mulch, the back of his head striking the ground and the breath in his lungs escaping in a startled, half-strangled shriek. The red frame of the playscape blurred above him.

One of the kids leaned over him. "Yeah, he's not bleeding," he reported, and he stepped over him.

Spencer started to cry. He rolled over clumsily onto his stomach and pushed himself to sit up, tears rolling down his cheeks. "You can't do that!" he sobbed, but they ignored him. He looked around. No one had noticed. Not even the supervising teachers.

He forced himself to stand, grabbing onto the base of the monkey bars to pull himself up, and picked up his backpack. He couldn't be here anymore. And what were they going to do if he left? Put him in detention? It was the last day of school, they couldn't do anything about it.

He pulled his backpack clumsily onto his shoulders as he marched out of the playground and down the sidewalk. Tears still rolled down his cheek and dripped off his chin and his nose was starting to run, he sniffled hard and wiped his face on his shirt sleeve. Resolutely he tugged down on the straps of his backpack, pulling hard enough to hurt, and kept his eyes down as he walked.

He passed by the nicer neighborhoods, the local park he still hadn't visited, the shabby shopping plaza with the thrift store and a Walmart. His apartment complex was directly off a main road, right by a busy intersection, but he pushed the big silver button at the crosswalk and waited for the sign to cross.

The apartment door had been left unlocked. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes, allowing the tears to well up in his eyes again. The back of his head throbbed painfully, and so did his shoulders and upper back where he'd hit the ground. At least he didn't need to go back to that stupid school for the next ten weeks.

He dropped his backpack. "Mom, I'm home," he called. The door to the apartment's only bedroom was closed, but as he got closer he could hear the steady mumble of her talking to herself as she worked through whatever today's problem with her book had surfaced. "Mom, I-"

"Not now!" she called.

He pressed himself against the doorframe, his little body pushed against the cheap hollow door and the doorknob jabbing into his cheek. "Today was the last day of school-"

"Stop bothering me! Don't you understand that I'm working?"

"I know, but I-"

"Leave me alone!"

He jiggled the handle. She'd locked the door again. "But Mom, I-"

"I told you, leave me alone, William!"

He stumbled back as if he'd been slapped.

"Why don't you fucking understand that I have work to do! Go see if Spencer needs you or something."

He stood there for a moment, stunned into silence. Suddenly he was too aware of his surroundings- the tag of his shirt itching the back of his neck, the goosebumps rising on his skin, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and mildew, the dust motes hanging in the air. The air was too loud in his ears, rushing like waves on a shore.

Slowly, dreamily, he shuffled away from the door and towards the living room. He sank down on the couch, his little body aching like he'd aged a hundred years in the past few minutes. Usually he was a stickler for taking his shoes off when he got home, but it was the last thought on his mind. Instead he laid himself down, curling up into a little ball on his makeshift bed. He pulled the sheet over his head, the afternoon light filtering soft through the well-washed fabric, and he stared blankly in the abyss, his thoughts so tangled and garbled that he couldn't think of anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh my HEART
> 
> they're both so sad. why did I want to write so much groundwork before they finally meet each other???
> 
> they're going to be happy, though. eventually. they will.


	4. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer can feel his mother drifting away. Alex remembers a little bit of what it was like to be a mother.

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

Spencer didn't understand the appeal of summer. The air was so hot and sticky, plastering his hair to his hair to his temples and his shirt to his chest. There was nothing to do at home; he made multiple trips to the library a week and watched more television in two months than he'd watched in his entire life.

Sometimes he made the trip to the park. It was too hot to play, and he'd never exactly learned how to play, anyway, and there were always swarms of kids on the playground, shrieking and climbing and running while their moms sat at the nearby picnic tables and played on their phones. Usually he found a quiet place in the grass to read, but sometimes he sat down at one of the concrete chess tables. Sometimes a stranger would join him, but more often that not he played by himself, shifting back and forth from one side to the other.

It was almost a relief when school started back in the fall. Not that he was particularly excited about fourth grade, but it gave him something to do, somewhere to be. He forged Diana's signatures on his forms, so he could walk home from school without being interrogated and scolded, or worse, trapped on the playground for the aftercare program. And he qualified for free lunch, which meant that five days a week he had a decent meal to look forward to.

There was nothing particularly exciting about fourth grade. He was still the smallest in his class- skipping second grade meant that he was eight to his classmates' nine and ten, and his unpredictable home life meant he was skinny and bony, and his clothes didn't fit him quite right. His school supplies were left over from the year before, and his hair was a little too long and shaggy, and he had yet to make any friends.

But that was fine with him. Doubtless his mom would finish writing her book soon, and she'd pack up their station wagon again, and they would end up back in Las Vegas before Christmas. Maybe even before his birthday. Not that there was much waiting for him in Las Vegas either, but it was familiar, and he hated change.

He'd only been back to school for a week or two when it happened. Viruses always seemed to sweep through elementary schools like wildfire, and somehow he always seemed to fall victim. Far back in his mind there was a little voice whispering _you don't get enough to eat, you don't sleep, you haven't seen a doctor since you were six, you're always worrying about if the bills are paid or if your mother will burn the apartment down, no wonder your immune system is nonexistent_.

But he refused to acknowledge that, and he tried to wash his hands as often as he could and stay away from the other other kids in his class, but inevitably he woke up one morning with a headache and a heat crawling under his skin and a twisting in his belly.

He stayed on the couch for as long as he dared, the sheet pulled up to his chin and his face buried in the musty, scratchy fabric of the armrest. Part of him wanted desperately to stay on his lumpy couch bed all day, sleeping and mindlessly staring at the small television. But he could hear his mother in the next room, mumbling to herself as her voice carried through the thin walls, her steps heavy as she paced back and forth, back and forth. So he dragged himself up, splashed cold water on his face, and went to school.

He almost didn't make it through the day. Class passed by in a blur of math worksheets and cursive practice, his stubby half of a pencil shaking in his sweaty grasp. During recess he curled up under the monkey bars instead of climbing to the top, leaving his book closed on the ground, and during lunch he huddled in his usual seat alone, his lunch untouched, the smells of the cafeteria making his nausea even worse.

His teacher caught him not paying attention several times, calling him back down to earth with a sharp question. Thankfully he was always able to summon up some kind of answer, mumbling something satisfactory enough for her not to press him for more information. His teacher wasn't very fond of him, it seemed. She liked her students obedient and quiet, with pliant little minds waiting for her to give out knowledge. Not scruffy little boys who ignored her lectures while he read books under his desk and never asked questions because he already knew the answers.

He made it through till the last bell, his headache pulsing in his ears and his stomach still threatening to rebel, and shuffled out of the room with the rest of his class. "Come on, everyone, line up, nice and neat," the teacher called, her voice piercing as a foghorn. Spencer bit back a wince at the sharpness of the sound.

The other fourth grade class was already in the hall; their teacher was cheerfully bidding them goodbye by name. "Remember, we have the spelling bee on Monday!" she said. "Have a good weekend!" She started calling out to Spencer's classmates too as they passed by, and he tucked his hands into his backpack straps as he walked.

"Oh, hold on, Spencer," she said, beckoning him over. "Are you all right?" He nodded, but she touched the back of her hand lightly to his forehead. "Oh, honey, you're burning up. You might have gotten that stomach flu that's been going around. Tell your mommy you need to rest and get plenty of water, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed quietly, and she sent him on his way with a light pat on his shoulder. .

He bypassed the kids lining up for the school buses and the crowd running for the playground. It would take him twenty-seven minutes to walk home, twenty-nine if he got stopped at the big intersection. He could handle twenty-seven minutes.

But it was so hot, and his head pounded, and his legs shook, and he had to stop twice to find a spot to throw up. For a while he sat on a bus stop bench, trying to catch his breath, dizziness swirling in his vision. He longed for someone to come by and pick him up and carry him home, but the only person he knew in this city was his mother, and she was waiting for him at home.

Probably.

He made it home and tossed his backpack to the floor. "Mom!" he said, trying to call out to her, but his voice came out in a raspy little squeak.

His vision swam and he nearly tripped over a forgotten half-filled trash bag on the floor. "Mom," he called. "Mom, I'm home from school."

The bedroom door was closed and he yanked it open to find it unlocked, but empty. The bed was unmade and the floor was piled with papers and books and fast food wrappers. The air reeked of old coffee and unwashed sheets and stale cigarettes. Just like the house in Vegas did.

Spencer sagged against the doorframe, tears threatening to spill over. He wanted his mother so badly. He wanted someone to clean him up, put him to bed, reassure him that he didn't have to worry.

But his mother was gone and he didn't even have a bed and all he could do was worry.

Slowly he pulled the wadded up top sheet from the foot of the bed, along with a ragged blanket, and grabbed a thin pillow. He shuffled into the bathroom and dropped everything onto the peeling linoleum, but he left the lights off. Slowly he set up a nest for himself and laid down without bothering to take his shoes off, curling up in a tight little ball. The stolen motel blanket scratched into his skin as he hugged his arms tight around his stomach. With the lights off the pressure behind his eyes seemed to lessen, but he was going to be sick again soon. He stared blankly at the scuffed wall, watching some kind of insect scuttle along the baseboard, and tried to force himself to fall asleep.

* * *

The bullpen had been eerily silent all morning, and Alex jumped at the sudden burst of unexpected noise.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!"

"Dad, we don't have school for the rest of the day!"

Alex picked up the cup of pens and pencils she'd knocked over as two small children whizzed past her, barreling towards JJ's desk. "Hi, baby!" JJ exclaimed, catching the smallest blur in her arms. She kissed Henry on the cheek. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you."

Anderson caught up with them, two backpacks hanging off his arms. "Hi, Agent Jareau," he said, sighing. "Do you know where Agent Hotchner is?"

JJ adjusted Henry on her hip. "He's in his office, he'll be out in a second," she said, taking both backpacks and setting them down at her desk. "Thanks for picking up the boys."

"Yeah, no worries," Anderson said. "Nobody cried this time, so I call that a win."

Jack Hotchner rocked up on his toes. "Aunt JJ, can I go see my dad?" he asked.

"Just a second, honey, he's in a meeting," JJ said. She turned to Alex. "Sorry for the sudden chaos. It was a half day, and usually my nanny takes both boys on days like this, but she came down sick."

"Oh, no, it's fine," Alex said, smiling. "These things happen."

JJ bounced Henry lightly on her hip. "Boys, this is Dr. Blake," she said. "Blake, this is my son Henry, and Hotch's son Jack."

"Hi, Dr. Blake," Jack said, Henry half-echoing him in an almost shy warble. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," she said, smiling at them. "I've seen your pictures on your parents' desks, I'm glad I get to meet you two in person at last." Jack smiled at her brightly; he was missing one of his front teeth. "And you don't have to call me Dr. Blake. You can call me Dr. Alex if you'd like."

"Are you a medical doctor or a book doctor?" Jack inquired.

"Book doctor," she said. "I study words."

Jack brightened. "I got a hundred on my spelling test last week!" he informed her. "I just started in third grade, so we're learning poly...polysill…"

"Polysyllabic words?" she guessed.

"Yeah!" he said. "Long words." He pointed his thumb in Henry's direction. "I'm seven, but Henry's only four. He hasn't learned how to read yet."

"Hey!" Henry protested, his feathery eyebrows drawing together in a scowl.

"I'm sure you'll learn in time," Alex reassured him, and Henry beamed up at her, pleased. "Four is still very little to learn to read."

Hotch stuck his head out of the conference room. "Hey, JJ, can you come in here for a minute?" he called. "And do you know when Prentiss and Morgan are coming back from lunch?"

"Daddy!" Jack shrieked.

Hotch's serious expression relaxed immediately, a smile lighting up his whole face. "Jack!" he exclaimed. He knelt down and held out his arms, and Jack ran to him immediately, flinging his arms around his father's neck. "Hey, buddy. You have a good day at school?"

"Yeah!" Jack said, planting a kiss on the broad plane of his cheek. "Can I play in your office?"

Hotch set him gently down on his feet. "Yeah, you can go play in my office," he said. "I have to be in a meeting with Grandpa Dave and Aunt JJ for a little bit longer, but you two can go play in there, okay? But not on the computer."

"Okay!" Jack said. "Come on, Henry, let's go!"

Henry wriggled out of his mother's arms and zipped off after Jack. "This meeting really won't take long," Hotch said, half-apologetic. "Blake, do you mind just listening in on the kids? They should be distracted enough to not cause any mischief for fifteen minutes."

"Absolutely," she said, smiling.

"We'll be right back," JJ promised, following Hotch into the conference room.

Alex turned back to her paperwork. They were between cases, and she had a backlog of reports to put together. She didn't mind it, really. The work was simple and reassuring, her thoughts settling in the background as she scanned the handwritten words and typed them into fluid sentences. The busywork was a welcome respite from the breakneck speed of the field, or the required energy of lecturing and teaching.

She could hear Jack and Henry in Hotch's office, their little voices high and piping, but too indistinct to catch what they were playing. It was such a strange juxtaposition, their happy sounds against the solemnity of the bullpen.

Suddenly she heard a thump, then a pause, then a shriek. Alex slid her chair back and followed the sound. "I'm sorry!" Jack called over Henry's wailing. "I'm sorry, Henry, don't tell your mom!"

"Hey, what are you two up to?" Alex said as she looked into Hotch's office.

Henry sat in the middle of the floor, legs sprawled out, sobbing at the top of his lungs. Jack hovered nervously. "I didn't mean to," he said quickly.

"Didn't mean to what?" Alex asked. "Why's Henry crying?"

"He p-pushed m-me!" Henry bawled. "I w-want m-my mommy!"

Jack twisted his fingers together. "I didn't mean to," he said again, a little softer.

Without thinking, Alex knelt down to hug Henry. He grabbed onto her immediately, clinging to her neck like a little monkey. She didn't see any blood nor bruises; most likely it was just the indignity of it all that was making him cry. "Were you playing too rough?" she asked. Jack hesitated, then nodded, and she tugged him a little closer to her side. "Jack, how old is Henry?"

"Four," he said.

"How old are you?"

"...almost eight."

"So if Henry is younger, and smaller, do you think you should play more gently with him?" Alex asked. Jack nodded. "What do you think you should do?"

"Say sorry," Jack said quietly. "And be nicer."

She squeezed him lightly "I think that would be lovely," she said.

Jack patted Henry's shoulder lightly. "Sorry for knocking you down, Henry," he said. "I'll be better."

Henry hid his face in the crook of Alex's neck. She patted his back. "Henry, did you hear Jack?" she asked. He nodded. "What would you like to say back?"

Henry shuffled so he could look at him. "S'okay," he said, sniffling hard.

Alex smiled. "Your parents are almost done, I'm sure," she said. "Jack, do you have something quiet you can do until your dad comes back?"

"I have a Magic Treehouse book," he said.

"I think that would be a great idea," she told him. "Henry, do you want to read a book with Jack?"

To her surprise, Henry tightened his grip around her neck. "I wanna stay with you!" he wailed.

Alex hugged him, her heart squeezing unexpectedly. "Okay, darling, you can stay with me," she said.

She got Jack settled in short order on the couch in Hotch's office with a book and a bottle of water from the kitchenette fridge, then went back to her desk. Henry immediately climbed up onto her lap, and she closed out her case report before he could see any of the photos. "Your mom will be done soon," she told him. "You're sure you don't want to go read with Jack?"

Henry shook his head. "Nah-uh," he said. "I wanna stay with you."

He cuddled up on her lap, tucking his head against her shoulder. Alex kept one arm around him, and pulled up the google doc for her next lecture. She typed one-handed, keeping Henry close. He seemed perfectly calm now, his blue eyes- just like his mother's- owlishly round as he watched her work. Slowly he started to doze off, his little head nodding, and before long she realized he was asleep.

Alex stopped working and adjusted him on her lap. It had been so, so long since she'd held a child as small as Henry. He was soft and warm and sturdy, his flyaway blond hair still smelling faintly like strawberry shampoo, and his sleepy breathing was steady and reassuring. Alex smoothed his hair back from his little face. After a moment she turned back to her work, but she was careful not to jostle the little boy for fear of waking him up.

After a while she felt JJ touch her shoulder lightly. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Has he been bothering you?"

"Oh, no, he's fine," Alex said. "There was a little squabble earlier. Jack's in Hotch's office reading a book, but Henry wanted to stay with me."

JJ smiled, running her slim fingers through Henry's hair. "Jack can play a little too rough for a preschooler, but he's a sweet kid," she said. "Henry must really like you, though. He's usually pretty shy around strangers."

"Oh, I don't know, he probably just wanted the nearest adult to give him a hug," Alex said. "Four's a tough age."

"Oh my god, absolutely," JJ said. "Will and I didn't know what we were in for. We were so excited for him to start talking, but now he's learned to argue!" She laughed. "Here, I can take him back, I'm sure you're tired of holding him."

JJ held out her arms to take her son back and Alex handed him over quickly. "He's beautiful," she said. "He looks just like you."

"Oh, really?" JJ said. "Thanks. Everyone says he looks the most like Will, except for the hair."

"No, no, I can see it," Alex said.

JJ smiled. "Thanks," she said. She tugged at the hem of Henry's shirt as he snuggled into her shoulder. "I think he kind of looks like me too."

"Oh, he definitely does," Alex said. "Sons always seem to take after their mothers the most."

JJ tucked a strand of stray blond hair behind Henry's ear. "You know, you're really good with kids," she commented. She frowned, her eyes darting quickly over to the framed photo on her desk- just the two of them, James's arm tight around her waist. Alex knew what question was coming next, and she braced herself. "You don't have any kids, do you?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eye contact. Smile.

"No," Alex heard herself say. "James and I don't have any children."

JJ smiled at her. "Well, if you ever want to borrow mine, you're more than welcome to," she said. She adjusted Henry on her hip, holding her sleeping son with the ease of four years' worth of motherhood. "He's the love of my life, but he's a handful, you know?"

Alex felt her smile freezing and tightening. "That's what I've heard," she said. She got up from her desk. "I'll be right back."

She walked to the bathroom, her steps even, and it wasn't until the door was closed and locked behind her that she allowed herself to breathe, gasping for air, her hands pressing to her mouth.

Ethan looked like her. Everyone said that. James said it first, the moment he saw their baby in her arms. And he did. Her dark hair, her dark eyes, her cheekbones, her pointed chin. Maybe James's nose, but all in all, he looked so much like her that there was no question who his mother was.

And now her arms were empty, and she lied about him, because no, she didn't have a child now, but she did, once, she was a mother, once, and holding someone else's son for the first time since she buried hers made her heart ache and bruise, because for the first time she realized with a piercing, painful clarity that she wanted a child again, wanted to be somebody's mother again.

She let her thoughts fall and rise and tangle like rocks in a tumbler, and when the sharp and jagged edges that hurt her so badly were smooth and glassy again she splashed a little water on her face without looking in the mirror, and she went back to her desk with a calm half smile that gave no sign to the ache in her heart.

* * *

Spencer started to avoid going home as much as he could.

The September weather was still remarkably warm, warm enough that he could stay outside until it was too dark to read. The neighborhood playground became his new refuge, a safe place away from the organized chaos of school and the scattered disorder of his mother turning their apartment into her personal universe.

Usually he brought a book with him, or two, and he'd find a safe spot to read until the sun had long gone down and his eyes stung from squinting at the pages. Often he scrounged around in the grass and around the park benches and sewer grates for loose change, sometimes digging up enough to buy a greasy hot dog or a thin slice of pizza from the gas station across the street. He was used to being hungry, especially on weekends, but it was nice when he could get at least something.

His mother's book wasn't going well. She was more stressed now, her smoking nearly incessant, and now usually accompanied by some kind of cheap alcohol. More often than not she went days without showering, longer without leaving the apartment. She wandered around like a ghost, wrapped up in her ugly pink bathrobe, talking to herself in a steady monotone mumble. Usually he stayed out of her way. It got worse when she noticed him. Her moments of clarity were fewer and farther between nowadays, and he seemed to make it worse. She may have been the ghost, but he was haunting her.

Nobody really bothered him at the park, either. He was a ghost there too, finding quiet places to hide, away from the noise and the other children and the chaos.

It was late in September, almost chilly enough for him to start to worry, when his hiding spot behind the tire swings was discovered. A boy around his own age jumped in front of him, startling him badly enough to drop his book. "Hi!" he said brightly.

Spencer grabbed for his book and scooted back, hugging it to his chest. "Hi," he echoed.

The boy smiled at him. He was all blond curls and guileless blue eyes and his clothes looked new, and for a hot irrational moment, Spencer hated him. "We need one person so our teams are even," he said. His words came out in a cheery little lisp; he was missing one of his front teeth. "Do you want to play?"

"I'm...I'm not good at games," he said.

"That's okay!" he said. "You don't have to be good, we just need teams to be even. Please come and play?"

He didn't know to say no, so he tucked his library book into a safe spot and followed the taller boy. "I'm Riley," he said. "You're in Mrs. Pennington's fourth grade, right? I'm in Miss Fairchild's, she's a lot nicer than your teacher."

Spencer could only nod as Riley continued to jabber, pulling him to an open spot in the park. A couple of kids he recognized from school loitered around, bouncing a dirty red kickball between them. "I found another kid to make our teams even!" Riley called. He turned to Spencer abruptly. "What's your name?"

"S-Spencer," he stammered.

"Spencer's on my team!" Riley said.

He felt vaguely nauseated. "What are we playing?" he asked, but the game had already started. Years of avoiding trouble in gym class had taught him how to keep from drawing attention to himself, so he settled for running back and forth on the outskirts of the group, staying away from the ball and the rowdy bigger kids, but making it look like he was doing something. His lungs seized and burned; he wasn't accustomed to running around so much and he got a stitch in his side almost immediately.

None of the kids seemed to notice that he wasn't actually doing anything. They were too busy playing, screaming and shouting with Riley as their ringleader. He even thought about sneaking away, that they wouldn't realize if he left, but he was afraid of what would happen if they did.

Suddenly a whistle caught their attention; Spencer nearly tripped as the game screeched to a crashing halt. "Riley, time to go home, the sun's going down!" a woman called from across the park.

"Coming, Mommy!" Riley called back. He turned to his friends, tossing his head and shaking his curls. "See you guys later. Spencer, you can come play with us again if you want."

"Oh," Spencer said, almost stupidly. "I- okay. Thanks."

The game dissolved quickly, the other boys splitting off to their own devices. Spencer went back in search of his book. It was getting dark, the sky softening to a velvety deep blue, so he might as well go home too.

He made his way back slowly, his book tucked under his arm. The air was still pleasantly warm, but surely it would only be a matter of time before the temperature would start falling. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do when it got cold. His hoodie and shorts wouldn't be enough to keep him warm in the winter, and he wasn't sure how to ask his mother for a warmer coat- or better yet, if they would be going home to Las Vegas soon.

He trooped up the splintered wooden stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door, but he paused as soon as he stepped inside. "Spencer!" Diana said. "Oh my god, where have you been, baby?"

He blinked. "The park," he said blankly. His mother was in the kitchen, and dinner was on the stove, and her hair was dark with water from a recent shower. "Are...are you okay?"

Diana switched off the burner. "Of course I am," she said. She cupped his cheeks in her hands. "Where on earth have you been? I was about to go looking for you. You had me so worried. School's been out for hours."

She rubbed her thumbs against his cheeks, and Spencer's eyes welled up. "Mommy," he whispered, and he burst into tears.

"Spencer, what's wrong?" she asked, bewildered. He dropped his book on the floor and flung his arms around her waist, burying his face in her stomach. "Why are you crying? Did something happen?"

"I missed you!" he sobbed.

Diana picked him up and he threw his arms around her neck. "Oh, honey, what are you talking about?" she said, rubbing his thin back. "I'm here. I'm right here. Stop crying, you're okay."

He pulled back and wiped at his eyes. "Mommy, can we go home soon?" he hiccuped.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "We are home."

"No, I mean Las Vegas," he said. "Our house."

She smiled at him, but there was something vague and unfocused in her eyes. "Sweetie, we are home," she said. She brushed his hair back from his face. "Are you hungry? I made dinner."

He shook his head and laid his cheek back against her shoulder, another sob shuddering through his little frame. Diana patted his back absently, shushing him, and he tried to swallow his tears down so she wouldn't worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man. they're so sad. caitlin, why do you keep doing this????????
> 
> oof.
> 
> I posted a Dreams are Only Blue oneshot the other day (Get Out of Your Head) and I'll be posting a drabble series soon as well!! I'm writing for Whumptober this year, so there will definitely be some Spencer Blake pieces posted. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!


	5. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 4

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

Spencer hung back at the edges of the field, clinging to the borrowed hockey stick as he squinted at the rest of the kids running in zigzag patterns. He hated gym class. He hated everything about it. But most of all, he hated field hockey day.

Soccer had rules that were easily enforced. Dodgeball was easy for him to get out quickly and spend the rest of class sitting on the sidelines. Kickball made him anxious when he was called up to kick with everyone staring at him, but it was usually simple to offer to let his classmates go in front of him so he could avoid having to do it. Field hockey, though, was awful.

No one really understood the rules. Usually the whole situation devolved into a horde of nine and ten year olds running back and forth, screaming bloody murder while they smacked each other with their hockey sticks. There were always injuries in gym class- at least one crying kid was sent to the sidelines with an ice pack and a paper cup of water- but field hockey days inevitably ended with three or four sobbing fourth graders trailing back to class.

The ball shot across the field and Spencer flinched. He only had to wait out thirteen more minutes until gym was over, and he could be back inside the classroom. Not that he had a very good time in class anyway- his teacher didn't still didn't seem to like him very much, and he wasn't looking forward to listening to her read Bridge to Terabithia out loud in her dull, dry, voice- but at least it would be warmer. The temperature had dropped suddenly once October began, and his shorts and hoodie didn't do much to keep him warm enough.

"Come on, Spencer, focus!" the gym teacher called from the sideline. "You can't just stand there the whole class."

He made a whining little noise in frustration and tightened his grip on the hockey stick before jogging reluctantly towards the horde of bigger kids clustered around the small orange ball. His sneakers slipped on the grass, and he almost tripped over the hockey stick.

All he needed to do was make it look like he was participating just enough for the gym teacher to stop noticing him. And he was good at staying unnoticed. If he could blend in-

The ball whizzed past him and he jumped back, too startled to attempt to stop it. "Move!" one of his biggest classmates shouted. "Why are you so stupid, Spencer?"

He blinked in confusion as the other kids ran past him, and suddenly an errant hockey stick swung up, striking him in the cheekbone. His vision blurred as he fell back hard, and somebody kicked him in their haste as they ran past.

He burst into tears. He was too startled to think straight, and it _hurt_ , and why was the game still going on? Why was this the moment that nobody noticed him?

"Hey, did he hit you?"

Spencer nodded, struggling to swallow down his sobs. Riley squatted down next to him and peered into his face. "Yeah, your cheek's all red," he said. He held out his hand. "C'mon, we'll tell the teacher and you can get some ice or something."

He pushed himself up shakily to his feet, covering his left eye with his hand. "Coach!" Riley bellowed, dragging Spencer behind him by the sleeve of his hoodie. "Spencer got hit in the face! It's real bad!"

He squinted up at the coach. "You did?" she said, surprised. "I didn't even see it happen. Let me take a look." She probed at his cheekbone, her hands cold and pressing down too hard on his soft skin. He tried to wriggle away. "Yeah, that's gonna bruise up. You okay? You want some ice?"

"Yes, please," he said, his shoulders catching in hitching sobs. The teacher got him an ice pack, only half paying attention to him as she kept an eye on the still-continuing game and shouted out instructions. Spencer sat down on the bleachers, slouching forward while he held the ice pack to his face. If he was going to get hurt, why couldn't it have been at the beginning of the class so he could sit out the whole time?

After gym he went back to his desk and spent most of read-aloud time cautiously probing the sore spot on his cheek. He could feel it swelling up under his fingers; he kept pressing his other cheek to feel the difference between them. The ice didn't seem to do much to help, and his mind was a swirl of statistics. It was going to bruise, he just knew it.

He checked in the bathroom mirror at lunchtime, and sure enough, his left eye was swollen, the cheekbone red and purple and puffy. Cautiously he climbed up on the sink to peer at it more closely, continuing to poke at it in morbid fascination. He'd never had a black eye before. And it hurt. It hurt more than he thought it would.

After school it was drizzling a little bit, just enough to be annoying. He pulled his hood up over his head, even though it wouldn't do too much to help. Doubtless by the time he finished his walk home his hoodie would be soaked through.

He trudged down the front steps of the school, his hands clinging to his backpack straps. "Hey, Spencer!" a voice called.

"Hi, Riley," he said.

Riley grinned at him. "How's your face?" he asked.

He pushed his hood back a little so Riley could see. "I have a black eye," he said dully.

"Oh, yeah, that looks bad," Riley said cheerfully. "Wanna come over? I got a new video game."

"I'm not very good at video games," Spencer said.

Riley laughed. "Then I'll win every time," he said. "Come on, don't you want to come over and play?"

Spencer hesitated. He probably couldn't go to the park after school since it was raining, and he didn't really want to go home. "Okay," he said. "Just for a little while."

Riley lived even closer to the school, but not in a rundown apartment like Spencer and his mother. Instead, he lived in a neighborhood of identical new townhouses, all clean slate blue siding with sharp white trim. Riley prattled on the whole way there, and Spencer didn't interrupt. He didn't feel much like talking.

"Okay, stay out here for just a second," Riley said, wiping his feet on the welcome mat in front of the door at number thirty-eight. "I'll tell my mom you're here. But don't worry, she won't mind, I bring friends over all the time."

Spencer waited obediently as Riley ran into the house, leaving the door open. The foyer was painted a clean sage green and the floors were polished hardwood; he could smell a lemon-scented disinfectant and an apple cinnamon candle burning.

"Mom!" Riley shouted.

"I'm in the living room, honey."

He could see a wall of framed pictures of Riley- in front of a lavishly decorated Christmas tree, dressed in a white shirt and khakis on a sandy beach, a whole parade of school photos.

"Mom, my friend Spencer's here, can he play Xbox with me for a while?"

"Which friend?"

"Spencer! The one who lives by the park."

The white carpet on the stairs was freshly vacuumed, recently enough for the track marks to be apparent in the pile. There were a pile of shoes in a basket at the bottom, all different pairs of Riley's sneakers.

"You mean the apartments near the park? Oh, honey, I don't think that's a very good idea."

"What? Why, Mommy?"

Riley's voice verged on a whine. Spencer leaned a little farther forward, straining to listen.

"I'm not sure if Spencer is a very good playmate for you, Riley."

"Why not? He's really nice."

"He's a little...I'm just not sure, honey. He's always...so scruffy, and unkempt, and I haven't had the chance to meet his mother yet, she won't answer my calls. I just don't have a very good feeling about him. Why don't you call Jayden instead and see if he wants to come over and play?"

Spencer backed away from the clean house and the archive of photos. He'd only met Mrs. Jenkins a few times, and he'd thought she was nice. But clearly he was wrong.

He pulled his hood tighter over his head as he started back towards his apartment. It was raining harder now, the drops thick and soft and cold, and he tried to keep his brain from replaying the conversation he'd overheard.

* * *

Alex fought back a yawn as she made the turn onto her street. It had been a long case, longer than she'd expected, and she was more than ready to be back in her own house after spending over a week in a hotel, living out of her go bag.

She pulled into the driveway and parked, but she sat there for a moment, staring in confusion at the house. The lights were on inside, a warm glow filtering through the curtains in the front room. And she was so sure she hadn't left the lights on when she left. She never left the lights on. Unless…

She left her things in the car and got out quickly. The front door was locked and she opened it as quietly as she could. She could hear music playing in the kitchen, and the bright clatter of utensils. Her heart skipped a beat.

James was standing at the sink, humming lightly along with the music, his hair damp from a recent shower. Alex snuck up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.

"Hey, you," he said, pressing his hand over hers as she leaned her forehead against his back. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't know you'd be home already," she said. She closed her eyes, breathing in the comfortable familiar scent of his cologne. "I thought you still had another couple of days in Ghana."

"Just a misdirection," he said. He tugged her out from behind him and bent to kiss her, his lips soft and warm against hers. "I got back yesterday. I figured you wouldn't mind a surprise."

"Not at all," she said. She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him again. "And you even made dinner."

He grinned. "Garcia might've given me the heads up that you were on your way back," he said. "Go shower, dinner'll be ready by the time you get back."

IHe kissed her on the cheek and she headed up the stairs. But she couldn't help the sudden shadow of anxiety creeping into her fingertips. She'd been planning this conversation for a while, she had just been planning on having it face to face, but she had pictured it happening in a couple of days. But she couldn't keep it to herself any longer.

They ate dinner together for the first time in months, catching up on all the little things they'd missed. It was so different to talk together, in the same room, inches away from each other, rather than over the phone. And she was happy, but the anxiety continued to crawl up her arms, burning into a loose-limbed unsteadiness. Maybe she shouldn't say anything. Maybe she could talk later. Maybe now was a bad time.

They fell back into long-accustomed patterns after dinner- James putting the leftovers away while she washed dishes. It was almost hypnotic- the warm lights of the kitchen, the heat of the water, the clean scent of the soap, the steady rhythm- and the words slipped out of her without preamble, almost without her realizing it.

"I've been thinking," she said. "What if...we had another child?"

The words hung heavy in the air. She stood very still, her hands submerged in the water, and James said nothing. Why wasn't he saying anything?

"Not...I mean, I don't want to get pregnant again," she said quickly. "But...maybe fostering? Eventually adopting?"

He still wasn't saying anything. Why wasn't he saying anything?

James slowly crossed over to her and leaned back against the counter. "What made you think of that?" he asked.

For a moment she thought about bluffing, coming up with some kind of somewhat plausible story that he would believe. But he wouldn't buy it, he knew her too well.

She pulled her gloves off and draped them over the edge of the sink. "Last month, JJ and Hotch's kids came by, and I...I don't know," she said. "It just reminded me of...of how much I miss being a mom." She looked down at the sink, staring at the soap bubbles popping softly on the surface of the water. "I think I could do it again. I think...I think I _want_ to do it again."

She looked up at James, almost afraid, but he was smiling, that soft sort of smile that he only saved for her. "I think I want to try it again too," he said.

Relief flooded her veins. "Yeah?" she said.

"Uh-huh," he said. "And fostering...yeah, I think we could try for that. It might be tricky, but fostering to adopt is probably the most viable option. Traditional adoptions can take years, but if we get approved to foster, we might get a placement within days."

She raked her hair out of her eyes. "We don't even need to get a baby," she said. "We could always ask for an older child. Five to ten years old, maybe? I've looked into it a little bit, that's a tough age range to find placements for."

"Yeah, five to ten years old sounds good," James said.

"We'd have to rearrange some things to get the house ready, but we should be able to manage it," she said. "You might need to leave Doctors Without Borders, though, so I don't know-"

"That's not a problem," he said. "I've got a standing offer with Good Samaritan, whenever I want to come back they have a place for me in the emergency room." He smiled at her again, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "I haven't heard you this excited in a while."

She sighed. "I don't think I've let myself get excited about this yet," she confessed. She took a step closer to him, tangling her fingers in his shirtsleeves. "I couldn't get excited until I knew you wanted to do this too."

He bent to kiss her softly. "I do," he reassured her. "We can do this. I think we can definitely do this."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and the hot anxiety in her chest melted away into something brighter and lighter and happier, floating to the surface and popping like soap bubbles. It was going to happen now, she knew it. She was going to be somebody's mother again.

* * *

He woke up on the morning of his ninth birthday excited. He hadn't felt excited in a long time, and the feeling was almost foreign. But his mother loved birthdays. No matter what happened, no matter how sick she was, she always had some sort of present for him, always had some kind of cake, always made a big fuss over him.

He pushed back his blankets on his makeshift couch bed and got ready for school quickly. Usually his mother woke up before him on his birthday, but her sleeping patterns had been so strange lately, at least when she was home. She was gone more often than not, spending most of her days at the library doing research. He wasn't sure what she was researching, and she rebuffed his offers to help, and he'd long since stopped pressing her for answers when she was in a bad mood.

He waited as long as possible for her to come out of her room before he needed to leave for school. She didn't emerge, and he crept up to her door to crack it open and peek inside. At least she was there, but she was sleeping, the sheets pulled and twisted haphazardly across the bed. He snuck back out and closed the door behind him. She slept so rarely now; he wasn't going to bother her. He could wait until he got home from school.

At school none of his classmates mentioned his birthday, and he didn't bring it up. Not that he expected anyone to know his birthday, but still. In any case everyone was buzzing about Halloween coming, about costumes and trick or treating and candy. He was excited about that too; he was trying to figure out what kind of costume he could put together, and Riley had already asked him to come trick or treating with him in his neighborhood.

Everything began to crumble during the last hour of class.

He was reading ahead in his math textbook, working out some more advanced equations in his head, and the teacher called his name. Quickly he slammed the book shut, pinching his fingers in his haste- she didn't take kindly to him working ahead.

"Spencer, it's your birthday today," she said. "Did your mom bring in anything for you to share with the class?"

His classmates swiveled to stare at him. He shrank back in his seat. "Um...no, ma'am," he said, barely above a whisper.

His teacher raised an eyebrow. "Oh, well, then," she said. "Never mind."

He slunk back farther, shame turning into a red embarrassed flush across his cheeks and rising up to his ears. Everybody's parents sent something into class on their birthday- candy or cupcakes or brownies. Not that his mother would have had money for that, or time, or energy, but he could have at least thought ahead enough to tell the teacher privately that he didn't have anything. He already had a reputation for being the weird kid, the quiet kid, the kid whose clothes didn't fit and his hair was too long and he got free lunch and his school supplies were cheap and falling apart. This wasn't going to help him at all.

He went straight home after school. The front door was left unlocked, but his mother was gone again. He peeked around in her bedroom, looking for something that might possibly be a birthday present, and checked the kitchen for a grocery store cake.

Nothing.

Spencer sat down on the couch and pulled his blankets around his shoulders, even though it did nothing to warm him back up. He switched on the television just to have light and noise and color, and he laid down quietly. It was too early to go to bed, but he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and for once he wasn't hungry. He pressed his fist against his mouth, almost as if he wanted the comfort of sucking his thumb but didn't dare, and he stared ahead blankly.

His mother came back after midnight, carrying an armload of books and notebooks. The TV was still on but she floated past him, not bothering to check on him or turn off the television. She closed the bedroom door, and then he allowed himself to cry.

But the next morning he got up and washed the sticky tear stains from his cheeks and went to school anyway. He was nine now, he was older, he could take care of himself just fine.

Halloween arrived a few days later, but somehow it had lost some of its shine. He didn't bother with a costume after all; he didn't feel like it anymore, and it was too cold for all of his ideas anyway. Riley had a fancy store bought costume, and his friends were all dressed like superheroes and cartoon characters. But no one mentioned his lack of a costume, which didn't surprise him. Riley's friends seemed to just tolerate him because Riley liked him.

Some of his excitement surged back when trick or treating started. Riley's parents had deemed him old enough to go out without them, as long as he stayed in a group with his friends and didn't go off on his own. Spencer hung back on the edge of the group to avoid Riley's mother noticing him, keeping his eyes down. But once they got going it was actually kind of fun. The neighborhood was well lit, filled with parents walking back and forth with their little ones dressed like ballerinas and vampires, and at every house people gave them big handfuls of candy. He'd brought a pillowcase with him, and before long it was full and heavy.

Riley's parents had given him a strict nine o'clock curfew, and the other kids dispersed fast when his phone alarm chimed, running home to their own families and their own houses. Spencer found himself alone when the group dissolved, standing on the sidewalk with a pillowcase full of candy, his bare legs in his shorts prickling with goosebumps from the cold.

He walked home slowly, eating skittles one by one and savoring the sweetness and the waxy texture. For a moment he debated going straight home, but he didn't want to go quite yet. His mother was in one of her bad times again, wearing down paths in the carpet and pulling at her hair and furiously chain smoking while she mumbled passages from her new book aloud. He wasn't ready for that.

He stopped at the entrance of the park, debating. It was dark, and technically the park was closed, but maybe he could hide out there for a little while.

But before he could decide, someone bumped into him, knocking the bag out of his hand and spilling candy on the concrete. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, kiddo," the man said. "Here, let me help you pick that up."

He scrambled to grab everything. "That's okay," he said.

The man dumped the candy into the pillowcase. "Sorry, bud, I think some of it rolled down into the sewer drain," he said.

Spencer swallowed hard. "That's okay," he said again, even though he knew that he was probably going to ration out candy for the next week or two to eat when he wasn't at school.

"No, it's not okay," the man said, shaking his head. "Hey, there's a 7-11 right next to the park. How about I get you some more candy to make up for it?" Spencer hesitated. "Anything you want. Full sizes."

"Okay," he said in a small voice, and he followed the stranger.

The inside of the 7-11 was bright and cheerful, the air thick with the smell of pizza grease and gasoline. Spencer shivered as he stepped into the warmth. "Pick out whatever you like, buddy," the man said. "You hungry? I can get you a hot dog or something."

His stomach growled before he could think it through. "Yes, please," he said gratefully.

True to his word, the man allowed him to get a pack of twizzlers and a full sized chocolate bar, and got him a hot dog and a tray of nachos. "Thank you," he said, almost shyly, his arms laden down.

The man nodded towards a bench. "I'll keep you company while you eat," he said.

Spencer climbed up and popped the lid on the nachos first. They weren't much to speak of, just round yellow chips and plasticky orange cheese sauce, but it was hot and he'd never tasted anything so good. For a moment he forgot his manners and shoveled them into his mouth, smearing cheese on his cheek and dropping crumbs down the front of his shirt.

The man laughed, not unkindly. "Wow, you were hungry, weren't you, little guy?" he said.

He gulped hard, forcing himself to slow down. "Sorry," he said.

"No, no, don't be sorry," he said. "You're a growing kid. I remember eating like that when I was seven too."

Spencer wiped around his mouth. "I'm nine," he said. "I turned nine on Wednesday."

"Really?" the man said. "Thought you were a little younger than that."

He set the empty nacho tray aside and picked up the hot dog, pulling the foil back. Funny, before, in Las Vegas, he hated hot dogs. His father would make them when his mother was too sick to make anything for dinner, boiling them in water on the stove and putting too much ketchup and mustard on top. Now he thought they were delicious.

"I see you in the park sometimes," the man commented. "You like playing chess, don't you?" Spencer nodded, his mouth still full. "You're very talented."

He crumpled up the empty foil wrapper. "I beat most of the people I play with, even the grownups," he said.

The man laughed. "You do, huh?" he said. "I'll have to play with you some time, then."

Spencer slid off the bench and gathered up his trash. "Thank you for the food," he said politely. "I should probably go home, though, it's getting late."

The man glanced at his watch, then up above at the parking lot lights and the security cameras in the gas station. "I suppose so," he said. "It's been a pleasure to meet you-"

"Spencer," he said.

The man smiled, the lights glaring off his thick lensed glasses. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Spencer," he said. "I'm Gary. I hope I see you again soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only a few people caught the Riley Jenkins connection in the last chapter...but here it is.
> 
> I'm working on Whumptober right now if y'all want to follow along!! I've been posting regularly; there should be a Patron Saint whumptober fill posted later today!


	6. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex faces the last physical reminders of her grief. Spencer is spiraling out of control and no one notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for child abuse, child neglect, canon-compliant predatory behavior, and grief/loss of a child

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

It was his fault. Nothing bad would have happened if it wasn't for him.

The first few days of Christmas break stretched out in monotony. His parents had never really been one for holidays; last year his mother had settled with KFC for dinner and reading Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and gave him a couple of hardback books in a gift bag. And that was fine. He wasn't sure if anyone had a lavish Christmas like it was depicted in commercials. Santa Claus's modern incarnation was created to sell Coca Cola products, after all.

But he was so bored cooped up in the apartment, and he was hungry, and his mother's book wasn't going well at all, which put her in a foul mood. He tried to clean, but they'd run out of garbage bags and cleaning supplies, and he tried to read, but he didn't have anything new to hold his interest. It was snowing hard, but the novelty of his first snow had long since worn off into a cynical disgust against the dirty slush that soaked into his only pair of wearable shoes. Now the snow just meant that it was too cold to go outside to the park.

It was late afternoon, on Monday- a week before he went back to school for his second semester of fourth grade. He hadn't seen his mother since the night before. She was locked up in her room still; he could hear her talking to herself in a steady indistinct murmur through the thin walls. He debated about knocking on the door and asking if they could order food, or if she wanted him to go to the grocery store a couple of blocks away to get something. But that could be risky.

He slid down carefully from the couch and picked his way through the cluttered living room to the kitchen. There was a crumpled box of hot chocolate packets on the back of a shelf, he was sure of it, but he wasn't sure if there was anything inside. Diana had a penchant for putting empty containers back on the shelves instead of throwing them away and he'd been disappointed on more than a few occasions. But he was in luck- the box was still half full.

The microwave had stopped working a few weeks ago, so he used an empty wine box to reach the sink and fill up the kettle. It was a little perilous, and it wouldn't be as good with water instead of milk, but hopefully his mother would like it.

He climbed up on the counter to grab a mug and poured the powder in, then took the kettle off the burner before it could start whistling. The thin ceramic of the mug was too hot against his small palms, but he balanced it carefully as he made his way to his mother's closed bedroom door.

"Mom?" he called. "I got you a drink."

No answer.

The mug was almost unbearably hot now. "Mom?" he tried again, bumping his elbow against the door in an attempt at a knock. "Can you open the door please?"

He nudged at the doorknob with his elbow until the flimsy door swung open; he nearly lost his balance but he kept the mug upright. Diana didn't even acknowledge him. She sat on the windowsill with a cigarette in her hand, tapping ashes out the open window even though the cold winter wind was blowing into the room.

"Mommy?" he said tentatively.

She still didn't answer him. Her lips were moving as if she was still speaking to herself, but no sound came out. He shivered.

"I brought you some hot chocolate," he said. "Is your book going okay?"

Diana blinked, as if she'd been asleep and he'd just woken her up. "It's not," she said hoarsely. Ashes crumbled onto her sweater sleeve, but she didn't brush them away. "It's not going well. I might have to start over."

His heart sank. "Do we have to stay here longer, then?" he asked.

She scowled. "What do you mean?"

He shifted his weight. "Will we have to stay here longer? Before we go home to Las Vegas?" he said.

"No," she scoffed. Her face twisted up, sharply shadowed, almost a stranger's face. "We can't go back there. I thought you'd figured that out by now. I thought you were smarter than that, Spencer."

His heart dropped. "We can't go back?" he repeated in a tiny voice. "What about our house?"

Diana sort of laughed, taking another drag on her cigarette, but she didn't answer. This was the version of her that he feared the most- withdrawn, sullen, her words cold and harsh and biting- because she wasn't his mother, she was a stranger with his mother's face, and he had to wait for her to come back and be herself again.

Spencer took a step back, the mug still burning his hands, and looked for a spot to set it down. There were pages stacked everywhere, on every conceivable surface- yellow notebook paper covered in his mother's scribbled handwriting in scratchy blue ballpoint pen. He shifted a stack on the dresser, trying to find enough room to set down the mug.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Diana demanded.

He jumped in surprise, hot chocolate splashing over his hands and the papers. "Ow!" he yelped, and suddenly his mother's thin hand closed around his wrist.

"Don't touch that!" she screamed. Her hand clamped tight like a vise on his wrist. "You ruined it! You know you're not supposed to fucking touch my work! No one can see my work!"

"I'm sorry!" he shrieked. He grabbed at her fingers, trying to pry them loose. "I'm sorry, Mommy, I didn't mean to!"

She swatted him hard across his backside. "You're spying on me!" she shouted. "You're going to tell them, aren't you? How dare you?"

"Please let go!" Spencer begged, scratching desperately at her tight clutch. "Let go, Mommy, let go of me!"

She kept screaming, but she wasn't making sense anymore, her words tumbling out in disorganized confusion. Spencer went limp in her grip as she shook him, trying to stay still and silent, waiting for her tirade to wear itself out, letting his thoughts go quiet and empty. He just needed to wait, and let her anger run its course, and then she'd be herself again.

Suddenly Diana struck him hard across the face. He howled and dropped to his knees, his arm twisting behind his back. "Stop crying!" she shouted. She let go of him and covered her ears; he scrambled back from her, pressing himself small between the wall and the dresser. "Stop, stop, just...stop making noise, stop it, I can't think, I can't think straight."

He covered his mouth with his hands, gasping for breath, trying to silence himself, and he shut his eyes tight. Diana kept talking, but the fire had gone out of her, she sounded sad and faded and small. He heard her footsteps on the carpet, the click of the door closing, and then all was silent.

Spencer burst into tears as soon as he was sure he was alone. His shoulder and elbow ached where she'd pulled too hard, and his cheek smarted. She didn't mean it. She didn't mean any of it, he _knew_ she didn't.

 _Mommy is sick,_ his father had told him, over and over again, for as long as he could remember. And when he was old enough he did his own research- found books in the library, looked up the long words printed on her pill bottles, read through the medical files his mother thought she'd hidden away in a drawer.

He just had to be good, and wait for her to come back. She rarely lashed out like this, only when she was at her most distressed. Her symptoms almost never manifested into anything physical. It was his fault. He shouldn't have bothered her.

A few hours passed, and he crawled out from behind the dresser, wincing when he tried to put weight on his sore wrist. His mother was gone, the door left unlocked and slightly ajar in her wake. He closed it up and turned the lock. It wasn't the first time she wandered out of the house, and it wouldn't be the last. He just had to be patient.

A day passed. He laid down on the couch to sleep, but he stayed awake listening for her knock.

Two days passed. He cleaned up the dried hot chocolate puddles and cleaned up the mug and rewrote the ruined papers, copying her disjointed words as best as he could.

Three days. He put more newspaper up over the windows, adding more layers to Diana's tape and paper shield until the light could barely shine through.

Four days. He was starving. He'd rationed out the hot chocolate mix and the ramen packets and the snack cakes as best as he could, but there was nothing left. Diana had left her wallet behind, so he took a couple crumpled dollar bills and bought bread and peanut butter from the 7-11.

Five days. She'd never been gone this long.

Six days. There was something wrong with the heat in the apartment; it kept clanking and chugging and spitting out burned dust. It still worked, but he was afraid it wouldn't keep up much longer.

Seven days. A whole week.

He had to go back to school. He didn't want to go, but he was already sick of bread and peanut butter and the allure of a hot lunch was enough to convince him.

It rained hard on his walk to school, cold enough to turn to slush before it reached the ground, and his hoodie and his sneakers and his only pair of jeans were soaked through by the time he made it to the classroom. The other kids bustled around him as they hung up their coats and backpacks, showing off the Christmas toys they'd smuggled to school and boasting about what they'd done during their two week vacation. Spencer hung up his wet hoodie on his hook and sat down at his desk, his long untidy hair dripping onto the shoulders of his short sleeved shirt. A headache was beginning to pulse at his temples, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

The bell rang; he leaned his chin in his hand as the teacher addressed the class in her dull, dry voice. She picked one of her favorites to pass out multiplication worksheets. Spencer stared at the paper when it was placed in front of him. The numbers blurred in his vision.

He picked up a pen from his desk and started slowly working through the problems. It wasn't difficult, he just didn't feel like doing it. The pen was almost out of ink, leaving a slight indentation but no color in spots.

"Spencer Reid!"

He raised his head as his classmates swiveled to stare at him. His teacher frowned. "No, sir, we do not do our classwork in pen," she said.

He looked down at the page. "But I've got them all right," he said.

The teacher took up the paper and placed a new one down in front of him without looking at his answers. There was a little tear in the top right corner. His mother would be so upset by that. "Do it again, in pencil," she said.

His lower lip wobbled. "But I've got them all right," he repeated.

She tore up his paper and threw it away. "Do it again, please," she said. "Don't argue."

His vision blurred. "I have a headache," he said. "Can I go to the nurse's office, please?"

"Class has barely started, Spencer," she said. "Stop procrastinating and do your work."

His heart thudded against his ribcage. "My head hurts, really bad," he said. "Please let me go."

"Not right now. Do your work."

He pulled at the rip in the paper. It tore easily, making a satisfying little noise. Somehow it made him feel better.

"Spencer, enough."

He pulled too hard and the paper ripped all the way down the middle. "My head hurts!" he said, and he started to cry.

The teacher huffed in irritation. "I've had enough, young man," she said. "Stop crying." She dropped a third copy of the worksheet down on his desk and pried the ripped halves from his hands. Tears dripped off his chin and dropped onto the printed multiplication problems.

"Spencer, I will send you to the principal's office if you don't stop that right now," she snapped. "We've only been back from Christmas break for five minutes, I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. Don't make me have to call your parents."

He cried harder. His classmates were beginning to whisper to each other, watching him with wide eyes.

The teacher pointed to the door. "Fine," she said. "Go to the nurse's office. Don't come back until you're ready to behave."

He stumbled out of his desk and threw himself at the door. The hallway was quiet except for the sound of his shoes on the scuffed floor, and he half ran all the way to the nurse's office.

It was empty when he got there, too early in the morning for the school nurse to arrive, so he sank down to the floor and huddled against the wall. He stuck his thumb in his mouth, his shoulders still shaking. His father used to scold him when he sucked his thumb, but now it was the only thing that gave him any kind of comfort. He leaned his cheek against the wall, the heat of his tears the only warm thing left around him.

Maybe his mother would be home when school was over, and she'd laugh about how she'd let so much time go by on accident, and she'd kiss his cheek and get him something to eat and he'd fall asleep to her reading from Proust or Hugo or Dostoevsky.

His hope wasn't much, but it was all he had left.

* * *

Alex turned the key in the lock and let herself inside. It was funny- they'd lived in this house for twelve years, but already it seemed like unfamiliar territory.

The new house was closer to Quantico, and closer to the hospital where James would work when he settled back down stateside; it was a bigger place, with beautiful windows and a big backyard and a space for her office. And there was a perfect bedroom for a child, with a bay window overlooking the yard and flanked with floor to ceiling bookshelves waiting to be filled. They'd already moved most of their things to the new house, painting the walls to their liking and placing the old furniture in new rooms. There were just a few things left in the old place- in the basement, the attic, the first floor bedroom with the door shut tight. James would be back in town next weekend, they'd finish it up then. For now she just needed to grab a few things before she drove across town to the new house.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty foyer. It was strange to see the house so barren. She felt almost homesick for a minute, for the way things used to be. But the house was already sold, and there was no going back now.

She took off her coat and set it down with her keys and her phone on the kitchen counter, brushing away rapidly melting snow from the fabric. The team had spent the past week in Maine, fending off a blizzard while they worked, and they'd returned to snow on the ground in Virginia, dirty slush heaped on the side of the road and cold rain soaking into everything.

She leaned her elbows on the counter and pressed her fingertips to her temples. The case had been hard, and when she wasn't working she was running through the list of things left to do while they waited to see if their application to foster was accepted. They'd applied for a foster-to-adopt dual licensing; so far they'd made it through the training and the interviews. Once the new house was complete they could finish the home study.

But there was a nagging little doubt in the back of her mind. What if they weren't accepted? What if they didn't pass? She and James both worked such hectic jobs, what if that prevented them from fostering or adopting? What if they were denied and had to start all over again with a new agency, a new set of hoops to jump through?

Maybe she just wasn't meant to be a parent. Maybe she just needed to rip the bandaid off and accept it.

Alex straightened up slowly. There was one step she'd been putting off for months- almost two years, at this point. Maybe now she needed to do it. Get it over with.

Without fully realizing her decision she found herself standing in front of the first floor bedroom, her hand on the doorknob. She paused, but before she could stop herself, she opened the door and turned on the lights.

It was almost like stepping into the past. Very little had changed since the day she and James had closed the door. Mostly it was the medical equipment that had been removed, since it wasn't needed any longer. His wheelchair had been donated to a grateful family that she'd refused to meet, and the hospice team had removed everything else.

It looked like any other child's room now. She remembered painting the walls in the middle of her pregnancy, after they'd found out they were expecting a boy. James had teased her because she kept changing her mind- pale blue, then sage green, then a yellow so light it was almost cream. In the end she chose a soft blue tinged with gray, an ocean color, serene and peaceful.

The nursery furniture had arrived while James was at work and they stayed up late that night to put the pieces together. It made it feel more real somehow, to have the crib waiting for its tiny occupant. But the crib had been swapped out for a bed on his third birthday, placed at a height that made it easier for them to move him.

Alex sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on the pillow. She'd heard other grieving mothers in her group say that they would lie down in their child's empty bed, breathing in their scent left behind on pillows and blankets. That had never worked to comfort her. The room smelled soapy and medicinal in those last days, everything scrubbed clean and safe.

She gazed around the room. Everything had been chosen so carefully- the artwork, the furniture, the bedding. There was a bird feeder outside the window too. He loved watching the birds, his little face lighting up like a firecracker when he saw them. There were certain things he loved- the birds outside his window, the sound of her voice when she read to him, being cuddled on James's lap. He could never tell them those things, but she knew.

Her pregnancy had been so normal- textbook, even. There was nothing remarkable about her labor or his birth, either. They'd brought him home and settled into the exhausted joy of parenthood without thinking that anything could be wrong with their perfect child. And even when she wracked her brain, thinking back over her pregnancy and her labor and that first idyllic year of his life, she couldn't find anything that she missed, something she could have caught that would prevent all of this.

She exhaled, the breath too loud in the silence. He would be eleven now, halfway through sixth grade. A tumultuous age for a child on the brink of the teenage years, filled with afterschool activities and science fair projects and growth spurts, old enough to be dropped off at the movies with friends but young enough to still want a goodnight hug and kiss from his parents.

She needed to stop torturing herself. Even if he was still alive, there would be no sports practices or club meetings, no friends to have playdates with, no talking back and tearful apologies afterwards. He never walked, never ran. He never spoke- no _mama_ , no _daddy,_ nothing. He had his own language instead, chirps and cries and laughs interspersed with a couple of clumsy hand signs. She and James could translate, but there was so much he still couldn't communicate, and sometimes he would cry and scream in frustration because he couldn't tell them what he wanted to say, and she would cry too because all she wanted was to understand him.

Alex got up. She left the room long enough to pick up flat boxes and tape and garbage bags and sharp scissors. And she started packing.

The clothes went first. He was tall for nine years old, almost as long as she was when she laid herself down beside him in his bed. She ripped down jackets and pants from the closet, pulled pajamas and shirts from the dresser drawers, took down pairs of shoes that had never touched the floor. All of it could be donated.

The books she kept, stacking them into the bottoms of cardboard boxes. She refused to stop and think about them, keeping the memories at bay as she packed them quickly. Peter Pan with the lovely oil paintings, Alice in Wonderland with the annotations around the original Tenniel illustrations, paperbacks of James and the Giant Peach and The Borrowers and Charlotte's Web, full sets of Narnia and the original Boxcar Children and How to Train Your Dragon. She had always imagined sharing books with her children. And she was never sure if he understood the stories, but she knew he loved the sound of her voice. He couldn't sleep if she didn't read a chapter to him.

It took less time to pack up the room than she thought. And it was easier to be ruthless than she expected. There was so much of it that she didn't want to carry to the new house, that she was ready to leave behind. Someone else would buy these things from a thrift store, take them home to their children, give them a new life, without any idea of the grief behind them.

The bedding she took care of last. She didn't want to take it, but she didn't want to just throw it away, but it didn't seem right to donate. Her baby took his last breaths in this little bed, in her arms. They had tried so hard, for so long- applying for every experimental treatment and study, traveling to other hospitals that promised progress and delivered nothing, arranging their lives with their son at the center. James had been the one to realize when it was time and they needed to call for palliative care, even if neither of them were ready. The last few days of his life they both stayed in his room, never leaving him alone for a second, and she held him as they disconnected the feeding tube and the oxygen cannula and the heart monitors. And then she never stepped into the room again.

In the end, she threw the bedding away.

She tied off the plastic bags and taped the boxes shut. They had already agreed to get rid of the furniture; the donation bags could wait for that day. She carried the boxes out to her car one by one, stacking them in the trunk and the backseat. And then she stepped into the room one last time, looking around at the empty ocean blue walls and the barren furniture.

James had suggested the name Ethan. It had been a relief to find the right name for their child; boy names were so much more difficult than girl names. Ethan meant firm, enduring, strong. Long-lived.

James gave her free rein on a middle name, teasing her gently about picking something that didn't come from a Russian novel or an Old English narrative poem. She'd chosen Fenmore. An old-fashioned name, a "heavily embroidered" name as James liked to say. It meant _dear love_. She had a couple of names milling around in the back of her mind, just in case, but when they placed her son in her arms she knew. Ethan Fenmore Blake. Her enduring love.

Alex turned off the light and closed the door behind her. She picked up her coat and her car keys from the counter, and she left the house. It was just a house, and it was just things, and her son would always be her son, even if she couldn't hold him. Even if a new child came into her life.

The car was freezing cold, but she didn't wait for it to warm up before she backed out of the driveway and started for home. She brushed a stray tear off her cheek, but strangely she didn't feel sad. Instead, it felt like she turned another page in a book, reaching a new chapter, ready for what might come next.

Maybe she was ready now, really. Maybe there was a child waiting for her and James already, a child who grieved like they did for their own individual sadness. A child who needed them.

Maybe she was ready, and maybe she needed them too.

* * *

"You have five minutes, everybody, so hurry quick."

Spencer dragged his feet as his classmates darted past him, shrieking happily with their arms filled with valentine envelopes. Every desk had a shoebox covered in pink and red construction paper and covered in stickers and hearts and glitter. Every desk except his, of course.

He sidled up to the window and leaned on the sill, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as he gazed down onto the street below. Dirty slush piled up on either side of the sidewalks; it hadn't stopped snowing in a week. Already he was dreading the walk home from school.

Suddenly he froze. He could see a thin figure in a gray sweater walking down the street, striding with purpose, her short blonde hair blowing back in the brisk midwinter wind.

"Mom," he whispered. He pressed his palms flat against the window, his heartbeat speeding up. It was her. It had to be her.

"Spencer, take your seat please," his teacher said.

He glanced back at her in desperation, then looked back towards the street. She was walking quickly, disappearing fast. Even if he ran out of school now, he wouldn't be able to catch up.

"Spencer Reid, take your seat. If I have to ask you again, you will sit out during recess tomorrow."

He dragged himself back to his desk and sat down, his toes barely brushing the floor. This was the first time he'd spotted her since she left the apartment two months ago. Maybe he'd be able to find her again.

The other kids were busy shaking their valentine boxes and trying to peek inside. Spencer slunk down further in his chair and put his thumb in his mouth, his other hand beginning to tangle and pull at his hair. It seemed like the habit was swallowing him up and he was unable to stop, but it was the only thing that made him feel like he wasn't going to fall apart.

The teacher directed one of the girls to hand out the reading textbooks, but he zoned out, ignoring the instructions she was giving. He was thinking through the direction he'd seen his mother walking, what streets she might cross, if she might stop somewhere. He had to find her. He had to.

He couldn't keep living on his own. The cash in her abandoned wallet had long since run out, and the credit cards were all maxed. If it wasn't for free lunch at school and scrounging around for loose change, he might not be able to eat at all. Although if he was lucky, he'd run into Gary in the park. Usually he saw him on Saturdays; he would challenge him to a few games of chess, lose everyone, and offer to buy him a snack at the gas station as a winner's prize. That tended to be the only food he got on weekends until he could get back to school on Monday. Sometimes Riley would join him at the park too, although he usually got bored watching them play chess and begged for him to come play instead. Sometimes Riley invited him over to his house, but he never accepted.

His teacher tapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Get your thumb out of your mouth, that's disgusting," she said. He scowled, but he obeyed, wiping his thumb carefully on the hem of his shirt. "Start on page seventy-eight. All the questions. Go on."

He rolled his eyes. It took him just a few minutes to read through the story, but he just didn't feel like doing the questions. Classwork wasn't important. He just wanted to leave and go looking for his mother.

"Ten more minutes, and then I'm taking up your assignments," the teacher warned.

Spencer huffed in frustration. He grabbed his pencil and started scribbling down answers, barely paying attention to what he was writing. His teacher wouldn't care what he wrote, as long as it was completed.

The assignments were collected at the end of the ten minutes and the teacher allowed them to tear into their valentine cards and candy. Spencer stuck his thumb back in his mouth and tugged on his hair again. His stomach was hurting again, a dull steady ache that burned up into his chest, but he didn't dare ask to go to the nurse again. He'd been told that he asked too often to go to the office, that he was just trying to get out of class. And at this point his head or his stomach always hurt, he was just sort of used to it.

The bell rang and he grabbed up his backpack and hoodie from his hook on the back wall, dodging the bigger and older kids in his class. His hoodie was disgusting at this point; he was rationing the remaining laundry detergent and washing his clothes in the sink since the laundromat was out of the question, but he could never seem to get it fully clean.

His class filed into the hallway, catching up to the other fourth graders. Their teacher was smiling and chatting as she walked with them. "Straight lines, please, fourth grade," his teacher called.

He pulled his hood over his head as he walked outside. Snow still fell in heavy wet flakes, dotting his shoulders and soaking immediately into his clothes. He pulled on the straps of his backpack and surveyed the street.

"Hey, Spencer, wait up!" Riley called, running after him. Spencer paused as he caught up, his arms straining to hold onto his valentine box. "Hey, where's your box?"

Spencer bit his chapped lower lip. Riley didn't need to know. "Forgot it in the classroom," he lied. "I'll get it tomorrow."

Riley didn't pick up on the lie. "You want my twizzlers?" he asked. "I hate them, and I have like six packs in here."

"Yeah, I'll take them," Spencer said. His stomach rumbled. Lunch was a long time ago, but he could hold off a little longer before eating the candy for dinner.

Riley tore open a chocolate bar, the wrapper falling to the sidewalk. "You wanna go play in the park for a while?" he asked, talking with his mouth full. "Or you can come over to my house, my mom's at work until five."

"We can go to the park," Spencer said stiffly. He wanted to say no, but he didn't know how.

Riley chatted brightly as they walked, seemingly unbothered by the snow in his shiny blue ski jacket and his striped mittens, his blond curls poking out of a matching beanie. The park was almost empty when they got there and Riley made a beeline for the climbing structure, dropping his backpack and lunchbox and valentine box on a picnic table as he ran. Spencer followed him a little more slowly. Running would take too much energy that he didn't have.

"Hey, Spencer!"

He paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "Hi, Mr. Michaels," he said.

Gary waved at him as he walked closer. "Aw, you can just call me Gary," he said. He smiled, but Spencer couldn't quite see his eyes through the glare on his glasses. "You wanna play? Chess tables are open."

"No, thank you," he said. "My friend wants to play."

"Oh, the little blond boy?" Gary said. "He doesn't seem to like to play chess like we do."

Spencer shrugged. "I know," he said.

There was something strange about Gary Michaels, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was antsy, shifting his weight rapidly with his hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was anticipating something that Spencer couldn't see.

"Hey, guess what?" Gary said. "I just got a brand new puppy. He's real cute, eight weeks old. A cocker spaniel mix. You wanna come see him?"

Spencer shook his head. "No, thank you," he said again.

Riley ran towards them, his sneakers spraying slush across the sparse winter grass. "Spencer, whatcha doing?" he asked. "Come on, I'm waiting."

"Mr. Michaels was telling me about his new puppy," Spencer said.

Riley's blue eyes brightened. "I want a puppy!" he said. "My mom said no, but my dad said I could get one next month for my birthday." He looked around. "Where's the puppy, I want to see!"

Gary's mouth curled up in the corners. "Oh, I just wanted to bring Spencer," he said.

"No, I want to see the puppy too!" Riley said, stamping his foot. "Come on, Spencer, let's go!"

"Yeah, Spencer, let's go," Gary echoed. He placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder, his thumb brushing against the side of his neck.

Riley took a step back. "Spencer?" he said. "You know this guy, right? Like he's your uncle or something?"

"No, I just play chess in the park with him sometimes," he shrugged.

Riley's eyes narrowed. "We shouldn't go, then," he said. "He's a stranger."

Gary laughed, thin and hollow. "Oh, I'm not a stranger," he said. "Spencer and I are friends, aren't we?"

"I don't think so," Riley said. "Spencer, didn't your parents ever teach you about stranger danger?" He jutted out his chin. "I'm going to go home, and I'm going to tell my mom."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that," Gary said. He laughed again, the weight of his hand pressing down on Spencer's narrow shoulder. "Spencer's just my friend."

Spencer wasn't listening. On the opposite side of the street, moving quickly, was the tall blonde woman in the gray sweater again.

"Mommy!" he screamed. He broke free of Gary's startled grip and ran towards her. "Mom, wait! Come back!"

He ran into the street without bothering to check for traffic. A car slammed on the brakes and blared the horn, stopping inches from him, but he didn't stop. He kept running, his breath catching in his lungs and a stitch burning in his side.

"Mom, stop!" he shouted. The worn out soles of his sneakers slipped on a patch of ice. "Mommy, please, please, stop!"

Diana kept walking. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, running and running and running without making any progress, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he thought it might explode.

Diana stopped at an intersection and pressed the silver button for the crosswalk. Spencer stumbled into her, flinging his arms around her waist. "Mommy, Mommy, I missed you," he sobbed. "Please come home."

The woman glanced down at him and pulled her airpods out of her ears. With growing horror he realized her hair was a little too long, and she was wearing mascara and red lipstick, and she was too young. "What the hell?" she said, bemused. "I'm not your mom."

Spencer stumbled back. Bile rose up in the back of his throat. It wasn't his mother. He hadn't seen her from his classroom window. He still had no idea where she was.

The young woman frowned in concern. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked. "Are you lost?"

He fled.

He ran all the way back to the empty apartment, trying to keep his tears at bay, his heart cracking and shattering in his chest. All of the hope he'd had earlier was completely gone.

He got the key into the lock and turned it, but when he flipped the light switch nothing happened.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no, no…."

He tried other light switches. He checked the circuit breakers. He unplugged and plugged in the living room lamp.

The power had been cut off. And this time there was nothing he could do. The credit cards were maxed out completely, there was no cash left. Until his mother came back and fixed things, he wouldn't be able to get electricity back.

Spencer sank down on the floor, not bothering to take his backpack off, and burst into tears. He curled himself into a tight little ball, pressing his cheek into the filthy carpet, and he cried until he was exhausted and nauseated, his body drained of energy.

Eventually he forced himself to sit up and wipe at his wet cheeks, his chest catching in hitching sniffles. The apartment was dark and cold now, and he wasn't sure what he could do.

He double checked the front door to make sure it was locked, then went into his mother's room. Carefully he took off his dirty shoes and his wet hoodie and his battered backpack, and then he climbed into Diana's bed, still fully dressed. The sheets and blankets were icy cold and he huddled himself up in an effort to keep warm. The pillows had lost his mother's scent, drugstore shampoo and patchouli and cigarettes, no matter how he tried to conjure it up. He still had the candy in his pocket, and even though he wasn't very hungry anymore, he ate it anyway, just to have something in his system.

Sleep evaded him. He was too cold to sleep, too shell-shocked. And he was afraid of sleeping too late and missing school, so he ended up in a light doze until he could hear the clatter of garbage trucks outside, signalling early morning.

Without electricity it was too cold to shower. He settled for splashing cold water on his face and brushing his teeth and changing into a different shirt. His shoes were still damp and cold and he didn't have any clean socks, but he tied the laces anyway and pulled the hoodie on.

At least it wasn't snowing, but there was a sharp wind that bit at his face and pulled at his hair as he walked to school. He was shivering by the time he made it inside the building; despite the immediate blast of heat when he walked into the doors he was still freezing cold.

He walked into the classroom and stopped dead in his tracks. His classmates sat at their desks in subdued silence; the two fourth grade teachers were talking in hushed voices at the front of the room. Something was wrong. He just wasn't sure what.

He hung up his hoodie and backpack and took his seat quietly. The girls in front of him whispered back and forth, and he couldn't help but listen.

"I heard it was two men in a white van."

"I heard they knocked him out with a baseball bat."

"The FBI is coming, they're gonna talk to everybody."

"No way, are you serious? The FBI?"

"Uh-huh, kidnapped kids is like a _really_ big deal. I saw on TV that if they don't find them fast...they're probably dead."

"Poor Riley."

Spencer pressed his hands over his mouth. They were talking about Riley. Riley was missing. Somebody kidnapped Riley.

He thought back to Gary Michaels, his eyes blank behind his glasses, his nervous voice rising up tight and high.

Somebody kidnapped Riley, and it was his fault.

Everything was always his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with me! I had a lot of personal life stress and fell into a hiatus, but I'm back and I'm so happy to be here!
> 
> please let me know what you thought of this chapter!!!


	7. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer and Alex finally meet

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

Alex didn't even stop to put her things on her desk before she joined the rest of the team in the conference room. There had been an all-call to arrive at the office by seven; she hadn't even had time to grab coffee on the way in to work. She sat between Rossi and Emily in silence, waiting to find out about the case.

"All right, my lovelies, the details should be on your iPads," Penelope said at last, bouncing the projector remote in her hands. "We got the information about this case in the wee hours of the morning, and time is of the essence."

Morgan frowned. "Where are we flying to?" he asked.

"Nowhere," Penelope said, pressing her mouth together. Today her "Unfortunately, this is in our own backyard."

She clicked the remote and a posed school photograph flashed up on the screen- a smiling boy with unruly blond curls and mischievous blue eyes. "Riley Jenkins, age ten," Hotch said. "Yesterday his mother came home from work and found him missing. When she went looking for him in the neighborhood, she found his backpack and lunchbox abandoned at the local park."

"Does Riley have a history of running away?" Emily inquired.

"Not at all," Penelope said. "His parents say that he's well-behaved, gets good grades, does his chores. Practically perfect."

"An only child?"

"Mm-hm," Penelope said. She clutched the remote with both hands, tight against her stomach, as if it was some sort of shield. The parents are understandably frantic. And apparently there are no suspects in mind so far- no weird next door neighbor, no estranged relative, no creepy teacher or babysitter."

JJ tilted her head like an inquisitive bird. "Abduction by a stranger is highly unlikely," she said.

"But they still happen," Rossi pointed out.

Alex bit back a sigh. Missing children cases were always difficult, but she had a sneaking suspicion this one was going to be particularly bad. "How long has it been since he was last seen?" she asked.

"His school dismissed at three in the afternoon, so sixteen hours at most," Hotch said. "Rossi and JJ, I want you two to go to the Jenkins house and interview the parents. Morgan and Blake, you'll go to Riley's school and talk to his classmates, see if there's any information you can find there. Prentiss, you and I will go to the park where they found Riley's belongings."

"And I'll be command central here," Penelope said. Today's dress was an unusually subdued blue stripe, as if she'd dressed with the gravity of the case in mind. "Now go on, go save the world and find this little boy."

Alex stood up and picked up her coat. She'd worked dozens of cases during her career, consulted on hundreds, but somehow something seemed different about this one. There was a strange nervous pull at the pit of her stomach, and she wasn't sure why.

She glanced over her shoulder at the photo of Riley Jenkins and his exuberant smile frozen in time. "You ready to go, Blake?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, I'm ready," she echoed, and she followed him out of the conference room.

* * *

Hotch frowned as he surveyed the park. The midwinter sky cast gray shadows over the naked trees and the heaps of sodden brown leaves half hidden in piles of slush. It did nothing to make the park appealing. Perhaps in summer it was more enticing- green lawns and blue sky and fresh air, the snow cleared from the playground equipment, mothers walking with strollers and children playing soccer and old men playing chess at the tables. But now it was bleak and barren, emptied of people in the middle of the busy street, the yellow banners of caution tape and the spinning red and blue lights a stark contrast to the gray ground.

"What are you thinking?" Emily asked in a low voice.

Hotch looked at the local officers moving across the scene. "I'm not sure," he said. "Something feels off about this."

Emily slid her hands in the pockets of her coat. "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking it," she said. "He vanished in a three hour window without any prior hints of rebellion that would indicate he would run away, and no indication of someone who might take him."

Hotch exhaled slowly. "The cops don't have anything to go on?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said. "Just his belongings. And it doesn't look like they were left in a struggle, it looks like they were left there on purpose."

"You go see who you can talk to," Hotch said. "I want to see it for myself."

His shoes sank into the wet ground as he ducked under the caution tape. Riley Jenkins' belongings were left on a picnic table- a blue LL Bean backpack with his initials embroidered on the front but the corners a little worn from half a year of use, a Minecraft lunchbox with his name written in lightly bleeding permanent marker on the bottom, a shoebox clumsily covered in red construction paper and white painted hearts.

Earlier that week, he'd helped Jack make his box for his class for a Valentine's Day party. The kitchen table was covered in paper scraps and confetti by the time they were done, but Jack had been so pleased. He'd picked out Paw Patrol valentines for the boys and princess ones for the girls, and he'd painstakingly assembled them himself and written his classmates' names in magic marker on each envelope. He'd offered to help, but Jack had insisted on doing it himself, and he'd been so happy to go off to school in the morning with the box under one arm and the bag of valentines clutched in his other hand.

Earlier that week, Riley Jenkins had decorated a box and made valentines for his classmates, and yesterday he'd gone to school excited for his party, and somehow he'd left school, put his treasures on a table in the middle of a park, and he hadn't come home.

"Hey, Hotch," Emily called. "Can you come over here?"

He crossed over to her. She stood by the yellow caution tape with a man in a dark green baseball cap; he held a leash in his hand and a golden retriever sat at his feet. "You're looking for that kid, right?" he said. "I saw it on Facebook."

"Do you know Riley Jenkins?" Hotch asked.

The man shrugged. "I come here pretty often to walk my dog, I've seen him around," he said.

"Does he come to the park often?" Emily asked.

"Maybe once or twice a week?" he said. "Usually with a woman, I guess his mom. Always with a bunch of friends."

"He's pretty popular? Well liked?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Emily shifted her weight, her eyes narrowing. "Any particular children you see him playing with out here fairly regularly?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Uh, yeah, there's one, I think," he said. "Scrawny little kid. Uh...light brown hair, kind of long. That kid's out here all the time. Sun up to sun down last summer."

"Do you happen to know that kid's name, or where he might live?" Emily asked.

"Nah, no clue," he said. "He's out here all the time by himself."

"Have you ever seen any adults approach Riley?" Hotch asked.

"Not Riley. But the other kid. There's this one guy who's always hanging around him."

Hotch crossed his arms. "What can you tell me about that man?"

"Uh...maybe middle aged? At least late thirties, but probably older. Thick glasses...dresses like he just walked out of a thrift store. He's always playing chess with the kid."

"Chess?" Emily repeated. "That's an unusual choice for an elementary school aged child. You're sure?"

"Oh, yeah, they're always playing chess," the man said. "The little kid wins most of the time too." He shifted his weight. "Sorry, I don't know much else. You think the Jenkins kid is still alive?"

"We'll do our best to find him," Hotch said, his jaw tight. "Thank you for your time."

* * *

Derek Morgan hadn't attended elementary school in decades, but somehow he still had a strange sense of guilt walking down the silent empty halls, as if a teacher was about to walk out and scold him for being out of class. He could hear small voices through the walls, reciting memorized words in a steady droning rhythm.

The principal opened the door to an empty classroom and flipped on the lights. "The two of you can set up in here," he said. "You wanted to see the teachers first?"

"Yes, please, for both of the classes," Alex said. "How many students are in the fourth grade here?"

"Twenty-seven in Mrs. Pennington's class, twenty-three in Miss Fairchild's," the principal said. "Riley is in Miss Fairchild's class." He folded his hands. "Is there anything else we can do to help?"

"This'll be the best start," Derek assured him. "These teachers spend most of the day, five days a week with Riley. They're gonna know him pretty well. And once we start talking to his classmates, I'm sure we'll be able to get some helpful information."

The principal hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else, but just nodded his head. "I'll send the teachers in," he said. "But please, if you need anything else, just let me know."

Alex set her bag down on the empty teacher's desk and unpacked her iPad. Derek started shifting chairs around to make a sort of interview space. "It's weird," he said. "No matter how many elementary schools we visit, they always manage to be exactly the same but completely different at the same time."

"I just wish we didn't have to visit elementary schools," Alex said wryly.

"Yeah...you're right about that," he said. He pulled a box of tissues off a shelf and ripped the top open. He had a feeling it was going to be needed.

Someone knocked lightly on the open door. "Hi, are you two the agents?" one of the women asked.

"Yeah, yeah, come on in," Derek said, waving them in. "I'm Agent Morgan, this is Agent Blake. Come on in, take a seat."

The two teachers were polar opposites- one older with short graying hair and a dour expression, the other younger in a dark dress and a brightly colored necklace, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. "I'm Deborah Pennington," the older teacher said as she sat down. "This is Shelly Fairchild. We both teach fourth grade here at McKinley."

Alex switched on the audio recorder, setting it close enough to catch their conversation. "Which one of you has Riley in your class?" she asked.

The younger teacher half raised her hand. "I do," Miss Fairchild said. "He's, um...he's such a sweet boy. Do you have any new information? The police-"

"Let's just talk about Riley right now," Alex said gently. "What kind of student is he?"

"Oh, he's very bright," Miss Fairchild said. "He picks things up very quickly. He can be a little distracted sometimes, but-"

"He's a little rowdy," Mrs. Pennington interrupted.

"He's just energetic," Miss Fairchild said. "He'll...you know, he'll get out of his seat sometimes, or talk to his friends when he should be quiet. But that's pretty normal for fourth graders."

"Has he ever had any significant trouble in your class?" Derek asked. "Outbursts, or behavioral issues, or a sudden drop in his grades?"

She shook her head. "No, never," she said. Her eyes welled up. "Riley is a very good student. And his parents have always been involved. His mother has been the classroom parent a few times, and his dad comes on every field trip. There's a lot of other children at this school who aren't as lucky to have parents as engaged in their child's education."

"Is he well-liked by his classmates?" Derek asked.

"Oh, yes, very much so," Miss Fairchild said.

"The fourth grade classes are together for certain things- recess, gym class, specials, lunch, things like that," Mrs. Pennington added. "Riley's a ringleader, he's usually heading up whatever things the kids are doing."

"Agent Morgan and I are going to interview some of Riley's classmates," Alex said. She picked up a notepad and pen. "Are there any children that Riley spends the most time with, any particularly close friends?"

Miss Fairchild took a tissue from the box and dabbed at her eyes. "Oh, so many," she said. "The Williams twins, Jayden and Jaylen. Liam McIntire." She sort of smiled, her eyes welling up. "He's got a little crush on Sophia Howard, it's so cute. And in Mrs. Pennington's class, he's friends with Kyler Mitchell, Benjamin Braswell, Spencer Reid-"

Mrs. Pennington snorted. "Good luck with that one," she said.

Alex paused, her pen hovering above the notepad as she frowned in concern. Derek caught her eye, then turned back to the teacher. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Spencer Reid is a troubled child," she said. "He's not your typical troublemaker, he just...likes to push his boundaries. He's too smart for his own good, he's always mouthing off. And he cries constantly, he's always crying about something, and trying to get out of class to go to the nurse. And it seems like he always has his thumb in his mouth. Babyish, disgusting habit." She folded her arms. "And when I try to get him to participate properly I can't get two words out of that child, so good luck talking to him."

Alex raised an eyebrow, but she wrote the name down on the list. "Well, Agent Blake and I will do our best," Derek said. He looked over at the other teacher. She was staring at her fellow teacher in almost disgust, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Any other children you think we should talk to?"

"Just a few," Miss Fairchild said. She spelled their names out and Alex wrote them down quickly in her even cursive. "And you'll keep us updated, right? We'll do anything to help find Riley."

"Absolutely, we'll let you know," Derek said. "We're doing everything we can."

* * *

It didn't matter how many times he had to talk to terrified parents, it never got any easier. He'd spoken to hundreds, maybe thousands of friends and family members during his career, but there was a specific sadness in a missing child.

Rossi eyed the Jenkins house critically. Middle class striving to rise upward- new construction in an affordable neighborhood, living room decor that looked like it belonged in a social media post, a large flat screen TV. And there were signs of Riley everywhere. Family photographs on the wall, small sneakers lined up by the front door, a video game console with brightly colored controllers.

Mrs. Jenkins walked into the living room with two mugs in her hand; she handed one to JJ and one to her husband. Both Lou and Marie Jenkins looked haggard and pale, dark circles ringing their eyes. Clearly distraught over their missing son.

JJ took the coffee but didn't drink it. "Mrs. Jenkins, can you tell me about the morning that Riley disappeared?" she asked. "Everything you remember."

Rossi listened. JJ talked the parents through the morning before his disappearance, the week before, the year before, searching for any details that might possibly indicate where this child could have gone. Even to his practiced ears, he couldn't pick up on anything that might turn into a lead.

"Who would do this?" Mrs. Jenkins said, dissolving into tears as her husband took her hand. "Riley's just a little boy. Who could possibly take him?"

JJ silently handed over a tissue box. "Mrs. Jenkins, I understand," she said softly. "I have a little boy too. Henry's four, almost five. I'd feel just like you if he was missing."

Mrs. Jenkins let out a small sob as her husband squeezed her hand. "Is there anything else we can do?" he asked. "Can we go out and do something?"

"Right now, getting as much information as we can is the best thing we can do," JJ said. She still held the coffee mug but she hadn't taken a single sip. "Why do you think Riley went to the park after school yesterday?"

Mrs. Jenkins half laughed. "He's always begging to go to the park," she said. "Our backyard is too small for a swingset, and he has so much energy. And he has so many friends in the neighborhood, they always want to go down to the park to play."

"Can you think of any friends he might have gone to play with yesterday?" JJ asked.

Rossi's phone buzzed and he glanced down at the screen as the parents listed off names. "What about one boy in particular?" he interrupted. "Thin, small for his age, light brown hair?"

Mr. Jenkins looked confused, but Mrs. Jenkins sighed heavily. "Oh, that one," she said. "Spencer Reid. I don't like it when Riley wants to play with him."

"Why not?" JJ asked.

"He's just very…" she said. She waved her hand dismissively. "There's just something about him that worries me."

"How so?" Rossi asked, frowning.

"I've never seen his parents around, for one," she said. "He's always by himself. And he's just...you know. He's kind of a mess, if you know what I mean. I think he lives in those apartments down on Fifth Street, and that's not a very nice neighborhood." She paused. "Do you think he might have gotten Riley into trouble?"

"We don't know that, but I think it would be helpful if we could talk to Spencer," JJ said.

"Some of our team members are at Riley's school," Rossi said. "We'll make sure they speak to him."

Alex tapped her last few notes on the iPad screen. "All right, thank you, sweetie, you did great," Derek said, getting up from his chair to escort the fourth grade girl to the door. "You can go back to class." He closed the door behind her and sighed. "How many kids do we have left?"

"Three, it looks like," Alex said.

"I'm gonna run to the bathroom, I'll be right back," Derek said. "I'll probably check in with Penelope too, see if she's heard anything new."

Alex skimmed back over her notes as he left the room. None of the kids had really given them much to go on. No leads, anyway. Just a bunch of children sad and scared over their friend. At least there were only a few fourth graders left to interview. She needed to get this over with.

The door creaked open and she glanced up. "Hi," she said.

A small boy peeked into the room. "Are you the FBI agent?" he asked.

She smiled. "That's me," she said. "Come on in. We have a minute or two before we'll get started." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, but he didn't sit down. "What's your name?"

"Spencer," he said softly. "Spencer Reid."

"It's nice to meet you, Spencer Reid," she said. "I'm Alex."

The first thing she noticed was that he was too thin, his cheeks almost gaunt and his clavicle jutting out above the collar of his tee shirt. His clothes didn't fit him either- his shirt was too big and his shorts were too short- and looked like they hadn't been washed in a while. But he had beautiful eyes, big hazel eyes flecked with gold and fringed with thick lashes.

He hovered a safe distance from her, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt. Alex set the iPad aside. "You can come sit down, sweetheart," she said gently. He bit his lip, as if he was still trying to size up the situation, but he sat down across from her. His feet dangled a fair distance above the floor, and she could see that his sneakers were filthy and fraying. "We'll just wait for my friend." She glanced towards the door, trying to see if Derek was on his way back. "Are you having a good day in class?"

Spencer scrunched up his nose. "Not particularly," he said. "My teacher is reading Where the Red Fern Grows to us, and I'm not really enjoying it."

"Oh, I remember that one," Alex said. "The boy with the two dogs, right?"

"We're only a few chapters in, but I read ahead," Spencer said. "The ending is trite, and the axe sequence is honestly just disturbing, especially if it's meant to be a children's book."

His syntax and vocabulary didn't sound like a fourth grader's at all, and she wasn't expecting that at all. "Do you like to read?" she asked.

He lit up "I do," he said, wriggling in his seat. "I started reading when I was eighteen months old. Well, my mom said I could read already, but my dad didn't believe her. But I read everything I can. And my mom reads-" He faltered. "I read a lot."

There was something there, but she wasn't sure what. "What's your favorite book?" she asked.

Some of the brightness came back to him. "I like War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells," he said. "David Copperfield. Um...the space trilogy by C. S. Lewis. Pretty much anything by Diana Wynne Jones."

"You do like to read," she said. "You have great taste." He smiled up at her, his eyes crinkling in the corners and a dimple popping in his cheek. "I like to read too. I think my favorites right now are Human Croquet by Kate Atkinson, and Heaney's translation of Beowulf."

"I haven't read that version yet," he said. "Just the Burton Raffel. I'll look for the Heaney next time I go to the library. My mom really likes the Raffel translation though, she might get mad if I read a different version."

He said that in a matter-of-fact tone, but something pricked at the back of Alex's neck. Something wasn't quite right. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

Derek walked back into the classroom. "Hey, there," he said, and Alex watched Spencer draw himself up, small and self-protected. "How're you doing, buddy?"

"This is Spencer Reid," Alex said. "Spencer, this is my friend Derek." She cleared her throat as Derek sat down beside her. "We're just going to ask you some questions about Riley, okay?"

Spencer was already pale, but the color seemed to drain completely from his thin cheeks. "I saw him after school," he blurted out.

Derek tilted his head, frowning. "When was that?" he asked.

"After school yesterday, around three-thirty," Spencer said in a small voice. "I might...I might have been the last one to see him."

Alex glanced over at Derek and checked the audio recorder. "What do you remember about yesterday?" she asked.

Spencer's mouth trembled. "I was walking home, and Riley caught up to me," he said. "He asked me if I wanted to play in the park, or if I wanted to go to his house. His mom doesn't like me very much, so I said we could go to the park."

"Why do you think Mrs. Jenkins doesn't like you very much?" Derek asked. Spencer shrugged, but he dropped his eye contact, and Alex had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly why, but he wasn't about to tell them.

"So you and Riley went to the park," she said. "What happened then?"

"He put his stuff on a picnic table, and he went over to the playground equipment," Spencer said. "And then Mr. Michaels came over."

Derek leaned his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped. "Who's Mr. Michaels?" he asked.

Spencer stared down at the floor. "Gary Michaels," he said. "I met him at the park last summer. He plays chess with me a lot, and when I win he buys me snacks."

"He does?" Alex said, keeping her voice calm and gentle. "Does he do that often?"

"Uh-huh," he said. "At least once a week. And I win almost all the time. He's not very good at chess."

"So Mr. Michaels came over to talk to you and Riley?" Derek said. Spencer nodded. "What did he say?"

His hazel eyes stayed downcast. "Hey, guess what? I just got a brand new puppy. He's real cute, eight weeks old. A cocker spaniel mix. You wanna come see him? No, thank you. Spencer, whatcha doing? Come on, I'm waiting. Mr. Michaels was telling me about his new puppy. I want a puppy! My mom said no, but my dad said I could get one next month for my birthday. Where's the puppy, I want to see! Oh, I just wanted to bring Spencer. No, I want to see the puppy too! Come on, Spencer, let's go!"

He spoke in a flat rapid monotone without looking at them. Alex set down the recorder, startled. "Spencer, is that exactly what was said?" she asked.

He raised his head. "Yeah," he said miserably. "I have an eidetic memory."

Derek seemed a bit confused by that. "So Mr. Michaels told the two of you he had a puppy and invited you to go see it?" he said.

"He only wanted to take you to see the puppy, he didn't want to take Riley," Alex said.

Spencer nodded. "He put his hand on my shoulder," he whispered. "And he was rubbing my neck. I didn't like it. And...and he held on too tight."

"What happened after that?" Derek asked. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, I saw...I thought I saw…" Spencer started to say. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I thought I saw someone I knew, so I ran after them. And then...I went home."

"You didn't see Riley after that?"

"No," he said. "But...but I'm scared that Mr. Michaels did something to him."

"Did you tell anybody?" Derek asked. "Your mommy or daddy?"

He shook his head and hunched over in his chair, his narrow shoulders slumping. Impulsively Alex reached over and placed her hand over his. "You didn't do anything wrong," she said. "And you did a great job telling us everything you remember. Do you think you could tell an artist what Mr. Michaels looks like, so they can do a sketch?" Spencer nodded. "Okay, sweetheart. We'll send you back to class, but we'll bring you back when the artist gets here. Is that okay?"

"Uh-huh," he said in a little voice. His hand was thin and icy cold under her palm. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"No, no, you've done great," Derek assured him. "You can go back to class for now, okay?"

Spencer nodded. "Thank you," he said. He slid down from the chair and left the classroom, closing the door behind him.

Derek let out a loud exhale. "Holy shit," he said. "I wasn't expecting that. I need to call Garcia." He looked over at Alex. "Eidetic memory. Like a photographic memory?"

"He was reciting the conversation word for word from memory," Alex said. "That child is brilliant."

"Wasn't he the kid we got warned about? The bratty troublemaker?"

"That's not how I would describe him," Alex said.

"No, not at all," Derek said. "Sweet kid. A little shy. Talks like an adult." He got up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call Garcia before the next kid comes in."

Alex fiddled with the audio recorder. He was right, but there was something else happening, something under the surface. Something was wrong. She just wasn't sure what it was, or if there was anything she could do about it.

* * *

JJ pressed her fingertips to her temples, the sounds of the police station blurring in her ears. It had been twenty-one hours since Riley Jenkins was last seen. They were almost at the twenty-four hour mark. Once they passed that, they might not find Riley Jenkins alive.

Rossi sat down beside her with a styrofoam cup of coffee. "Heard back from Penelope yet?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said. "I know she's been talking a lot with Morgan about what the little boy at the school told them. They've got the artist working with him now, trying to get a good picture. Once we have that we can move forward with the press conference."

Rossi was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. JJ watched him, waiting patiently. "I don't think Michaels intended on taking Riley," he said at last. "I think the other child was his main target, and Riley was a consolation prize."

JJ linked her fingers together and leaned her elbows on the table. "You don't think he was targeting both of them?" she said.

"That's a possibility," he said. "But something about this doesn't seem right to me. If Michaels had been truly targeting Riley Jenkins, his parents would have known something. At least that there was a stranger talking to their child in the park. They keep insisting that they don't know anyone would possibly want to harm him, and they don't know who Gary Michaels."

"Maybe they'll recognize the artist's sketch," JJ suggested.

"Maybe," Rossi echoed, but he didn't seem sure.

JJ's phone rang; she answered the call and switched it to speakerphone. "Hey, Garcia," she said. "Rossi's here with me. Do you have anything?"

"Well, I started off looking in the general area, and then gradually widened my search," Penelope said. "And I am disheartened to inform you that the only Gary Michaels in the area is an hour and a half away from the park, and he just celebrated his ninety-eighth birthday."

"So probably not our unsub," Rossi said.

"It would be tremendously unlikely," Penelope said.

JJ sighed. "He probably gave the boys a fake name," she said.

"Garcia, can you sort through sex offender registries?" Rossi asked.

"I mean, I _can,_ but I certainly don't want to."

"Look for male offenders targeting boys between seven and ten years old," Rossi said. "If our unsub was willing to escalate to kidnapping, he's probably gotten in trouble before with more minor incidents. That way when we've got a sketch, we can compare it to photos in the registry."

"I'll do it and get back to you as soon as I can," Penelope said, and the call ended abruptly.

JJ smoothed her hair back. "Do you think we're going to find Riley before it's too late?" she asked.

"Honestly...I'm not sure," Rossi said. "This is an odd case. I feel like there's something we're missing. Something that isn't working."

JJ nodded. "I'll call Derek, see if there's any headway on the sketch," she said. "And maybe they can take Riley's friend to the park, see if there's anything else he can remember."

* * *

"Blake. Take a look at this," Derek said. He held out the completed sketch, and Alex blinked in surprise.

"Did I do okay?" Spencer asked anxiously, twisting around in his chair.

"You did an excellent job," Alex said. "You gave so many details, I'm impressed." She tilted it so he could see. "Do you think it looks like him?"

Spencer nodded, a shadow falling over his face. "It does," he said.

The younger teacher peeked into the room. "Spencer, sweetie, are you doing okay?" she asked. "Recess is starting, I wanted to check on you."

"Yeah, he's good to go," Derek said. He patted Spencer on the shoulder. "Go on and play, little man. We'll see you after school, okay?"

"Okay," Spencer echoed. He scooted down from the chair and slipped out to the hallway, but he didn't seem to be excited about the prospect of recess.

"I'll be right back, I'm gonna send this to Garcia and the rest of the team," Derek said.

Alex cleared her throat. "Miss Fairchild, do you mind if I ask you a question?" she said.

"Oh, no, of course," she said, her eyes wide. "Is it about Riley?"

"No, not exactly, I was just wondering…" Alex started to say. She shifted her weight. "The other teacher warned us that Spencer was going to be a handful. What are your thoughts?"

Miss Fairchild sighed heavily. "Oh, that boy," she said. "There's something going on with that child, but I have no idea what's wrong with him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, Deborah's right, he does cry a lot," she admitted. "But that's not too uncommon with this age group. And he's younger than most of his classmates, he just turned nine last month."

"Really?" Alex said.

"He skipped...second grade, I think? It was before he moved here," Miss Fairchild said. "I'm not exactly sure. But he gets a little sassy with Deborah because he's bored and frustrated, he's the smartest child in his class and he's not being challenged. And I know he asks to go to the nurse a lot, he always has a stomachache or headache. But I think it's genuine."

Alex frowned. "Does he stay home sick from school often?" she asked.

"No, the opposite. He's always here," she said. Miss Fairchild glanced out into the hallway, as if checking to see if anyone was listening. "Spencer is in the school's free lunch program. I've never met his parents, but I don't think he's well cared for at home. I mean, in general this is a lower-income area for the most part, but there's something just...not right."

"Has anyone called social services?"

The young teacher sighed. "I've been tempted," she said. "It should be Deborah, since he's in her class, but she won't. I keep thinking I should call myself, but I don't want to overstep my bounds. She might be right, I'm a new teacher and I'm not used to how things work like she is."

Alex bit her lip. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sure we'll be talking to Spencer's parents later. I'll let you know if there are any concerns."

The teacher smiled gratefully and walked away. Alex leaned against the doorway. Her suspicions seemed to be confirmed, but it didn't make her feel any better.

* * *

Three-thirty in the afternoon. Twenty-four hours since Riley was last seen.

A light rain had started to fall, threatening to turn to sleet in the gray late afternoon sky. Emily pushed her damp hair away from her face. The park was quiet now, but a couple of stragglers lingered at the yellow caution tape, still trying to get a good look at what they were doing.

Hotch caught up to her. "Alex and Derek are on their way over with the kid," he said. "And JJ and Rossi are starting the press conference with the parents."

"We hit twenty-four hours, Hotch," Emily said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you think we're going to find him?"

"I'm not sure," Hotch said. "We've got a profile and we've got a face, but we don't have a name."

A black SUV pulled up to the curb and parked. "They're here," Emily said.

"Hopefully he can help us fill in more gaps," Hotch said.

Alex and Derek got out of the front seats of the SUV; Derek opened the backseat door and helped the boy down to the ground. He slipped a little on the wet grass as they walked into the park and Alex took him by the hand.

"How's it going out here?" Derek asked, squinting at them in the gray drizzle.

"Just waiting for you guys," Emily said. She looked down at the child holding tight to Alex's hand. "Hi, buddy. You're Spencer?"

He nodded. Despite the sharp chill in the air he wore a ratty hooded sweatshirt from a Las Vegas casino instead of a coat, and his shorts left his thin legs bare. "Spencer, this is Emily, and this is Hotch," Alex said. "They're some of the other members of our team."

Hotch crouched down in front of Spencer, his usually solemn expression softening. "It's nice to meet you, Spencer," he said. "Can you walk around with me for a little bit? We just want to see if there's anything else you remember."

Spencer nodded again, but he seemed reluctant. "I'll go with you," Alex promised. "I'm sure you remember just about anything, but it'll help Hotch if he can hear you explain what happened."

"Okay," he said.

He walked away with Hotch and Alex, still holding onto her hand. "How's it been going out here," Derek asked.

"Not great," Emily said. "I can't remember the last time we had to dig through a case with this little to go on. Hopefully JJ's press conference with the parents can get us somewhere." She stuck her hands in her back pockets. "How's it been going with the kid?"

"He was the last person to see Riley alive," Derek said. "And he's brilliant. Talks like a little adult. If it wasn't for him and his memory, we wouldn't have anything of the information that we have right now."

The wind was beginning to pick up and she pulled her jacket tighter around her. "Does that kid not have a coat?" Emily said. "He's got to be freezing out here."

Derek's mouth settled in a firm line. "I asked the same question, but apparently that's all he's got," he said. "Blake was saying that something was up with him, and I think she's right. You know, we tried to call his mom to ask permission to take him out here. He said she was at work and she wouldn't mind if we took him."

"That is strange," she said. "He's...what, eight? Same age as Jack, and I can't imagine Hotch letting him run around on his own."

"Spencer just turned nine apparently," Derek said. "Just real small for his age."

Emily watched Hotch and Alex walk with Spencer across the park. "Hopefully he can help us find Riley," she said. "You know we hit twenty-four hours. If we find him, he probably won't be alive."

"There's nothing in the profile that indicates the unsub would be likely to kill him," Derek said. "I think we've got more time."

"God, I hope so," Emily said.

By the time Hotch was done interviewing the kid, the sun was starting to set, and Spencer's hoodie was soaked through, but he was still holding onto Alex's hand. "Thanks for your help, Spencer," Hotch said. "You did a lot today. You did a great job."

Spencer's little face was pale and pinched in the waning light, his damp hair curling and tangled. "I did?" he said.

"You did, you were so helpful," Alex reassured him.

"Come on, we'll give you a ride home," Hotch said. "I'd like to talk to your parents too."

Spencer shook his head. "My mom works really really late," he said. "And I don't live very far. I can walk home."

"Are you sure? It's still raining," Derek said. "It's no problem, kid, we can take you home."

"No, no, it's okay, I walk home every day," Spencer said. "Thank you, for, um. For everything."

He started to pull away from them, but Hotch reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. "If anything happens or changes, please call us," he said. "We might come see you at school again too. Okay?"

Spencer nodded. "Thank you," he said. He slipped his hand out of Alex's grip and ducked under the yellow caution tape.

"Let's check in with JJ and Rossi," Hotch said. "We need to know how the press conference went."

Emily started to follow, but Alex was standing still, watching Spencer disappear down the sidewalk. "Blake, you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," she said absently. "I'm fine."

* * *

If there was any evidence left in the park, the rain had washed it away for sure. The skies had opened up, drenching them in earnest with icy cold rain. The yellow caution tape flapped in the window, threatening to blow away.

"Hotch, come on," Emily called from the SUV.

"Coming," he called back. He couldn't help but feel that he'd missed something, something important, but he crossed towards the SUV.

He almost missed his phone ringing. He dug it out of his pocket and frowned at the unknown number on the screen. "Aaron Hotchner," he said tersely.

"I found...I found him. I found him."

Hotch frowned. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Spencer. Spencer Reid. I f-found-"

His voice was high pitched and frantic, almost a scream. "Spencer, who did you find?" Hotch demanded. "Did you find Riley?"

"I think he's dead!"

Hotch waved Derek and Emily over from the car as he switched the phone over to speaker. "Okay, Spencer, I need you to take a deep breath and tell me where you are," he said.

"Corner of...corner of Fifth and Weston, I'm at a payphone, and I...I...he's dead. Riley's dead!"

"Where's your mom? Is she still working?" Hotch asked. "Are you by yourself?"

"I'm by the payphone, it's the only-"

His voice cut off sharply. The rest of the team listened to the call in shocked silence. "Spencer, what's wrong?" Hotch asked. "Where's your mom? Do you have anyone with you?"

"No, I'm by myself," he whispered. "But I can see him watching me."

"Who's watching you, Spencer?" Hotch asked.

"Gary Michaels."

Hotch gritted his teeth. "I need you to find someplace safe," he said. "Go into a store where there's people, or find a hiding place. We'll come find you, okay? We'll find you and Riley."

"But I'm-"

And the line went dead.

Hotch gripped the phone tighter. "Spencer?" he said. "Are you okay? Are you safe?"

No answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no oh no oh no
> 
> I'm so sorry


	8. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer can't keep secrets forever, even though he's tried.

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

Spencer dropped the phone, letting it dangle from the cord and swing like a pendulum, and he ran.

He didn't know where he was going, or what he was doing, but he ran as fast as he could, his sneakers slipping on the rain-slick pavement. The streetlights didn't provide enough light to see clearly so he ran blind, his heart beating so loud in his ears that he couldn't hear if Mr. Michaels was running after him.

His heel struck the curb at a strange angle and he pitched forward, crashing into the wet asphalt, but he pushed himself up and kept running, his heart in his throat. There was a stitch pulling at his side but he couldn't afford to worry about that.

He darted down a dark alley, rain blurring his vision so badly he could barely see. It was a dead end, and for a split second his heart plummeted to the ground, but there was a dumpster pushed against the rough bricks. He scrambled through a pile of sodden cardboard boxes and tumbled into the little gap between the overfilled dumpster and the wall.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe at all. He wound his fingers through his wet hair and pulled, gasping through his teeth. He had to stay quiet but he couldn't breathe and his heartbeat sounded so loud in his own ears, and when he closed his eyes he saw him, he saw Riley, he saw Riley dead on the ground, staring up at the night sky.

He hadn't been looking for Riley. He was looking for his mother, because he needed her, he needed his mother to come home, and the rain was beginning to soak into his hoodie and he was cold and he was just thinking that maybe he needed to give up, he needed to go home and try again tomorrow, and the toe of his sneaker nudged something soft and yielding and-

Spencer buried his face in his hands and swallowed down his sobs. He couldn't make a sound, he had to stay quiet, if he made a sound he would end up like Riley, staring at the sky without seeing anything. So he pulled his knees to his chest and pulled his hood over his head and tried to keep his heart from beating out of his body.

* * *

It wasn't the first crime scene where she saw a child's small body, but it never got easier. Alex took a deep breath and let her thoughts settle. She needed to stay calm and focused, because losing her composure wouldn't make things any easier.

"Morgan, I need you and Blake to look for Spencer while we get the scene secured," Hotch said. Rain sluiced off the shoulders of his jacket but he didn't seem to notice it. "He couldn't have gotten too far, hopefully he's hiding somewhere. But we need to find him before Michaels does."

"We're on it," Derek said.

"Stay in communication. If your earpiece gets waterlogged, keep in touch with Garcia," Hotch said. "Be careful."

It wasn't a nice area of town- definitely not a place where a little boy should be allowed to walk alone at night, gridlocked streets of dark warehouses and dirty sidewalks. Why was Spencer out here at night, alone?

"Where do you think he might be?" she asked Derek.

He swung his flashlight; the beam caught the cold rain in glittering strings. "No clue," he said. "Hopefully he found a good spot to hide."

Alex bit back a frustrated sigh and fished in her pocket for a hair tie. "Spencer," she called as she lashed her hair back in a tight ponytail. "Spencer, are you out here?"

"He better be here," Derek said in a low voice. "I'm not gonna find another kid's body out here tonight."

"We did our best," Alex said quietly. "There wasn't much to go on, even with the information Spencer gave us. The parents were no help, neither was the school."

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad I don't have to talk to break the news to the Jenkins family," Derek said. He focused the beam of the flashlight. "Spencer!"

He kept moving down the street in long strides, but Alex walked slower, checking the small dark spaces that might be big enough to hide a child. If he was scared, he wouldn't be just sitting around waiting for them to show up. He would make himself small to stay safe.

She shone her flashlight down a dark alleyway; the beam revealed a dead end brick wall and an overflowing dumpster. "Spencer," she called. "Where are you?"

She followed Derek down the street, but a soft rustle caught her attention and she paused. "Spencer?" she said, shining her flashlight back down the dead end alley.

The light caught a pair of big hazel eyes in a pale little face.

Relief flooded her veins. "Morgan, down here!" she shouted as she turned down the alleyway, her flashlight beam casting long eerie shadows. "Spencer, sweetheart, it's okay. You can come out, it's safe."

Spencer crawled out from behind the dumpster on his hands and knees and pushed himself off the ground, wobbling on his thin legs. "Did you find him?" he rasped.

"We found Riley, we're taking care of it," she said. "We haven't found Gary Michaels yet." She cupped his cheeks in her hands; his skin was ice cold and his chin was bloodied. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. Derek jogged towards them, the flashlight bouncing in his hand. "Oh my god, there you are," he said. "I'm glad we found you, kid, I was worried about you." He squeezed Spencer's shoulder. "Let's get you back, okay? Once we've got all the details squared away we'll take you home to your mom."

Spencer nodded. Derek kept his hand on his shoulder and steered him back down the street. Alex walked in silence at his other side. It was raining harder now, cold water dripping down the back of her neck and into her flak vest. She wondered for a moment if she could take Spencer's hand, but she didn't want to do anything that might make him any more nervous or skittish than he already was.

Red and blue police lights circled around the crime scene, turning the yellow caution tape barring the scene in sickening colors. The CSI team was already there, cameras flashing as they documented the scene. Alex's chest tightened at the sight of the white sheet spread over the body half hidden in the gutter. Riley's blond curls poked out from the edge of the cover, bright against the dark ground.

Spencer stumbled to a halt, a strangled little noise breaking from his throat. "Come on, kid, let's go talk to Hotch," Derek said. He kept walking, his hand slipping from Spencer's shoulder.

His narrow shoulders jerked sharply. "Morgan, wait," Alex said suddenly. She knew what was happening, but she couldn't catch Derek's attention further before Spencer doubled over and threw up on the pavement. She took hold of his thin arm and kept him from falling forward. "Oh, honey, it's all right."

"Is he okay?" Derek asked.

Alex bent over Spencer, rubbing his back gently as he coughed and gagged. There wasn't much in his system to bring up, but his knees wobbled and he whimpered as he caught his breath. "I know, darling, I know," she said softly. She brushed his hair back from his forehead. "Is it okay if I pick you up?"

"Uh-huh," he whispered.

Alex picked him up carefully. "I want you to put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes," she said. "That way you don't have to look. I'll carry you."

He didn't answer, but he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Alex shifted him to a more comfortable position on her hip. "Blake, everything okay?" Derek asked.

"You remember your first crime scene, don't you?" Alex said. Derek's face fell, as if he had just realized what Spencer was seeing, and he touched Spencer's back lightly. "Let's go talk to Hotch."

Hotch was deep in conversation with the local police, his face drawn and haggard in the harsh lights, but he relaxed when he saw them. "You found him," he said. "Good." He dug a set of keys out of his pocket. "Blake, you stay with him. Take one of the SUVs, get him warmed up. We'll talk things over when I get a free second. Morgan, you come with me."

"No problem," she said. She patted Spence's hip lightly. "Come on, sweetheart."

There were news vans already pulling up to the yellow tape, reporters climbing out and preparing for their late night broadcast. Alex unlocked the SUV and set Spencer down in the backseat. "Give me just a second," she said. She turned the key in the ignition and set the heater on full blast, then dug around in the trunk for a spare jacket and a bottle of water.

Spencer slumped in the backseat, the overhead lights making him look even paler and drawing out the dark circles under his eyes. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead and she could see the bloody scrape on his chin more clearly now.

Alex cracked the cap of the water bottle. "Take a little sip and rinse your mouth out," she said. "And then I want you to drink the rest of it."

Spencer obeyed without a word. Alex stood beside the car with the bottle cap in her hand, watching him. She rested her hand gently on his knee. It was February, it was late, and it was raining- why did his mother let him out of the house, and in shorts, without a real coat? 

He held out the empty water bottle, as if he wasn't sure what to do with it. She took it back, replaced the cap, and set it on the floor of the car. "Let's get that hoodie off you," she said. "t's not doing you any good."

He fumbled with the hem and she helped pull it off gently. The ratty hoodie was wet and heavy from rain; he was soaked all the way down to the light tee shirt he wore underneath and his thin bare arms erupted immediately in goosebumps. Alex guided his arms through the sleeves of the too-large FBI jacket and zipped it all the way up. "We'll get you warmed up soon," she reassured him as she rolled the cuffs past his wrists. "Do you want me to sit with you?" He nodded, and Alex climbed up into the backseat of the SUV and shifted him around so he was pressed up against her side.

Hotch walked over to them, a silhouette in the dark. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"As well as could be expected," Alex said.

Hotch leaned up against the side of the car. "Spencer, can you tell me what happened?" he asked.

Spencer rubbed his eyes. "I was...I was walking, and I didn't...I didn't see him," he said. "I almost stepped on him, but I didn't know he was there, and I-"

His shoulders heaved. Alex slipped her arm around him. "Take a deep breath," she said softly.

He tried, but his breath came out in a tight wheeze. "I found him, and I tried to see if he was breathing, but...he wasn't," Spencer said. "So I went to the payphone over there." He pointed towards the curb, his hand shaking. "And I looked up, and Gary Michaels was watching me." He rubbed his eyes again. "He was, um...about fifteen feet away, under a streetlight. Just watching. In a dark green jacket, and a baseball cap, and sneakers. Black sneakers."

Alex rubbed his upper arm. "That's good, sweetheart, you're doing really good," she reassured him.

"When you ran away, do you know if he followed you?" Hotch asked. "Do you know which way he went?"

Spencer shook his head, and his eyes welled up. "Riley's dead," he whispered. "Mr. Michaels killed him, didn't he? And it's my fault."

"It's not your fault," Hotch said firmly. "You did everything right. You helped us so much." He tilted his head. "Do you hear me?" Spencer nodded, hiding his face against Alex's arm. "I'm going to send somebody over with a first aid kit to get your chin taken care of. Stay here with Alex, okay? We might need to ask you some more questions. And when we're done we'll take you home."

He nodded. Hotch patted him lightly on the knee before turning back towards the chaos.

Spencer was shivering now, his teeth beginning to chatter. Alex wasn't sure if it was just the cold, or the adrenaline draining from his little body. "Are you still cold?" she asked. "We can probably get you a blanket if you want."

He pressed himself tighter against her side. "What if he comes back?" he said. "What if he tries to take me?"

Alex hugged him against her, resting her chin on the top of his head. "Don't worry about it, darling," she said. "We'll take care of you. You're safe with us. You're safe with me."

He didn't seem convinced. He huddled himself up small, tucking his legs to his chest. Alex stroked his hair back from his forehead. He was so cold, and so upset, but she wasn't sure what exactly she could do to help. So she just hugged him to her side and hoped it would reassure him and warm him up a little bit.

* * *

Exhaustion had already long since dug its claws into him, but the scene was just beginning to settle. Hotch exhaled slowly as he watched the coroner's van drive away.

It had been a long day, a day that he had expected to be over already, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel. JJ was taking care of the press conference that would be aired first thing the next morning, and Rossi and Prentiss were taking the parents to the morgue. There were just a few strings left to tie up, and then they could call it a night.

The overhead light of the SUV was a steady beacon across the street. Blake sat in the backseat in silence, her head bowed. "You all right?" he asked gently.

Alex glanced up. "I've been better," she said. "He could be doing better too."

Spencer was asleep with his head on her lap and his thumb in his mouth; the borrowed jacket swallowed up his small frame and covered his free hand, but his bare legs were prickled with goosebumps. Alex was stroking his hair away from his face in an easy, rhythmic pattern. "Morgan and I will get him home," Hotch said. "I want you to check in with Garcia and go over a list of possible names with her from the hotline. And then I want you to go home and get some rest."

"No, I'm fine, I can go with you guys to take him home," Alex said.

Hotch half smiled. "Listen, I don't know if you've ever had to stay up late with a worked-up little kid, but I have, and trust me, it's exhausting," he said. "You look beat. Morgan and I will take him home and talk to his mother. I'm sure she's worried about him." Alex sighed, running her thumb along Spencer's cheek. He couldn't quite read her expression. "And besides, I need you to check in with Garcia. Prentiss and Rossi are with the family and JJ's doing the press conference. If we need to bring Spencer again for an interview tomorrow, I'll leave that to you."

"Fine," Alex said reluctantly. She bent over Spencer, sweeping his hair back from his forehead. "Spencer, wake up, darling."

He blinked sleepily and pushed himself up to a sitting position, his thumb slipping from his mouth. "Time for school?" he mumbled.

"No, it's the middle of the night, it's not school," Alex said. Spencer's eyes closed again and he leaned his cheek on her shoulder. "Agent Hotchner and Agent Morgan are going to take you home, okay? I'm sure your mama is worried sick about you. And I'm sure you want to sleep in your own bed."

Spencer sat up, all of his drowsiness gone. "You don't have to take me home," he said. "I can do it. I can walk home."

"Not a chance," Hotch said. "It's not safe. And we're going to talk to your mother about what's been happening."

Spencer went pale. He opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but clearly he couldn't think of anything to say. Alex got out of the SUV, but she leaned against the doorframe and took Spencer's hands in both of hers. "Stay safe, and get some sleep," she said. "I'll stop by and check in on you tomorrow, okay?"

He nodded. Alex gave his small hands a last squeeze and walked away into the dark rain. Hotch straightened up. "All right, kiddo, let's get you home to your mother," he said.

The drive was silent. Morgan was quiet in the passenger seat, texting with Garcia, and Hotch focused on navigating the dark unfamiliar streets. Spencer gave them the address but after that went completely silent. He was too small to sit comfortable in the backseat of the SUV, his seatbelt sitting too high across his narrow chest. Hotch couldn't quite see him in the rearview mirror, but he got an unsettling sense of anxiety from the child, as if he didn't want to be there.

It was strange, now that he thought about it. Any other child would be sobbing for their mother, begging to go home. Spencer seemed almost like he didn't want to leave them, even though they were strangers.

He turned into the apartment complex. Even in the middle of the night he could see how rundown the buildings were, the headlights catching the peeling paint and piled up trash. He pulled into the first available spot he could find and parked.

"Which building is yours?" Hotch asked as he got out of the front seat and slammed the door. Spencer pointed to a gray building tucked away at the edge of the complex. He didn't see any lights on in the building, but he could hear muted pulsing bass and smell cigarette smoke.

"Doesn't look like anyone's home. Do you think your mom might have left to go looking for you?" Derek asked. Spencer shook his head. "Does she even know you've been gone?" His chin trembled and he shook his head again.

Hotch caught Derek's eye. He had a distinct feeling that this was going to be a difficult conversation. What kind of mother wouldn't realize their child was missing in the middle of the night?

The complex seemed vacant, but there was one man standing in the parking lot, lit under a street light, watching them. Average height. Average build. Dark green jacket. Baseball cap. Sneakers. Black sneakers.

Hotch took Spencer by the shoulder and moved him quickly behind him. "Morgan, ten o'clock," he said in a low voice.

Morgan already had his hand on the butt of his gun. "I'm on it," he said.

"Spencer, I want you to go to your apartment and shut the door," Hotch said. "I'll be there in a second. Just stay hidden until I get there."

"Is that him?" Spencer said, grabbing onto the hem of Hotch's jacket. "Is that Mr. Michaels?"

"Upstairs, now," he said sharply, and Spencer ran up the stairs, clinging to the railing. Hotch switched on his earpiece as he watched Morgan move towards the figure on the curb. He made the call for backup in sharp clipped tones, keeping an eye on Morgan as he took off running.

This was bigger than just Riley Jenkins. The unsub was targeting Spencer. He had been targeting him from the beginning, and Riley was just collateral damage in his effort to get to Spencer.

He took the stairs two at a time and knocked on the apartment door. "Spencer, it's Agent Hotchner, open the door," he called.

He paused. He couldn't see through the front window of the apartment. The glass was covered in a layer of newspaper so thick it was impossible to see.

The lock clicked and the door opened slowly. Inside the apartment it was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. "Spencer, are you okay?" he said as he stepped inside. "You can turn the lights on, it's safe."

"The lights don't work."

Hotch frowned and flipped the switch by the front door. "All the lights, or just this one?" he asked.

"All of them."

He turned on the flashlight on his phone and waved it around, looking for the breaker box. The harsh white light revealed trash heaped on the dirty carpet and he stepped carefully in an attempt to avoid it. He found the box, but the breakers were fine, all clicked into the correct place. It couldn't be a complex-wide power outage, not if they could see lights shining from the rest of the buildings.

"Spencer, how long has the power been out?" he asked, frowning.

"At least forty-hours. Maybe...maybe longer," he said, his voice hitching. "Did you find him? Did Agent Morgan get him?"

"He's looking for him," Hotch said. He knelt down; he could barely see Spencer in the dark. "You haven't answered me yet. Are you okay? Where's your mother? Is she still at work?"

Spencer's shoulders heaved. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know."

Hotch stood up and squeezed his shoulder. "Go get a drink of water and sit down," he said. "We'll take care of everything, all right? We'll stay here till your mom comes home and we know for sure what's happening."

Spencer nodded and stumbled past him. Hotch switched off his phone flashlight as the bathroom door closed and dialed Garcia's number. She answered halfway through the second ring.

"Hi, hello, what the _hell_ is happening?"

"Garcia, are you still at Quantico?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm here, I'm in my lair, I'm just waiting for Blake to get here," she said. "I just watched JJ's press conference. That poor little boy."

"Yeah, well, we have another little boy to worry about," he said. "I'm going to give you an address, and I need you to check the power company records and see why the electricity is turned off."

He could hear the keys clacking away from her end of the line. "All right, um...the power was disconnected due to non-payment two days ago," she said. "Yikes. Apparently the apartment is also due for eviction soon, also due to non-payment. Whose apartment is this? Is it Gary Michaels?"

He frowned. "What name is the apartment rented under?" he asked.

"Oh...not Gary Michaels. A Diana Reid."

He exhaled in a measured breath. "I need you to pull some strings and get power turned back on at this address as soon as you can," he said. "It's urgent. And send this address to JJ, tell her I want her to come here as soon as the press conference wraps up."

"Will do, I can work some magic."

"Oh, and Garcia," he said quickly before she could end the call. "I need you to pull as much information as you can find on Diana Reid."

"You've got it. Keep me updated, chief."

He crossed his arms over his chest, squeezing the sides of the phone a little too hard. There was a sharp crawling sensation at the nape of his neck that something wasn't right. Not just profiler instincts, but something else.

He tried to picture his own son, his own little boy. Jack stumbling into a playmate's dead body, Jack running from an unsub in the rain, Jack going home to an empty apartment with no lights and no heart and no parent.

He could hear Spencer throwing up from behind the closed bathroom door. Something was wrong, and he was going to figure it out before he left the child here and completed the case.

Derek walked into the apartment, his steps heavy. "Lost him," he said. "He made it to his car, but I got the make and model and a partial license, so I'll send it to Garcia." He stopped. "Jesus. It's as cold in here as it is outside. And why are the lights off?"

"The power was turned off a few days ago," Hotch said.

"Where's the kid? Is he with his mom?" Derek asked.

"There's no sign of the mother," Hotch said. "Spencer's in the bathroom. Morgan, there's something not right here."

"What are you thinking?" Derek said.

Hotch hesitated. He wasn't quite confident yet- he could feel an answer forming, but he wasn't sure if he was right.

Suddenly the lights switched back on in full force; the microwave in the kitchen chimed in protest. "Holy shit," Derek breathed.

The apartment looked like a bomb went off. Trash covered the floor; the apparent patches of carpet were visibly dirty. Thick layers of newspaper and packing tape covered the windows, blocking the apartment from the outside world. The old tube television was coated in a thick layer of dust.

Derek walked into the small kitchen and opened the fridge. "Fuck," he said.

"What?" Hotch said, glancing back. "Everything spoiled?"

"No. There's nothing in here."

Hotch frowned and followed him. He expected it to be hyperbole, but Derek was correct. There was nothing left in the fridge. No spoiled milk, no forgotten vegetables, not even takeout containers. Nothing. Empty shelves.

Derek scanned through the cabinets. Most of the dishes were in the sink, idling in a standing pool of stagnant water, and there wasn't any food left in the pantry. "No wonder Spencer was willing to take food from Gary Michaels, he has to be starving," he said. "You think the mom just doesn't feed him?"

"I don't know," Hotch said, and the answer forming in the back of his mind shifted into clearer focus. "Get in touch with Garcia and give her the car information, and keep an eye out for JJ, she's on her way."

He crossed back into the living room area. It was a small apartment, barely a step up from a studio with just one bedroom. The furniture was sparse, just cheap mass-market stuff that must have come with the place. He had a suspicion of what he might find in the bedroom, but it brought him no satisfaction to find he was right.

The bedroom was worse than the living room and the kitchen. The cold air smelled like a thousand stale cigarettes and unwashed laundry. The bed was unmade, the bare mattress speckled with stains and the thin sheets left in a heap. Books and papers were stacked on the floor and across the dresser and nightstand. The lamp was left broken on the floor, dangling by the cord. And he didn't miss the discarded wine boxes half-hidden in the corner, or the cups stacked around the room with mold lingering in the dark dregs at the bottom.

"Hey," a voice said softly behind him. He jumped and turned around to see JJ standing behind him. "Morgan filled me in. Everything okay?"

"No," Hotch said. "No, it's not." He took a step back so JJ could see the chaos. "What do you see?"

JJ surveyed the room for a moment. "A lot of unintentional disorganization," she said. "But not all of it- the way the books and papers are stacked, those seem like they have some kind of order to them, even if it doesn't seem to make sense." She bit her lip. "Definitely a problem with alcohol. Self-medication, maybe." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And definitely not a safe environment for a child. Do you know where the mom is?"

"No idea," Hotch said. "All he's said is that she's at work." He glanced down at her. "Did Morgan tell you about the power? The electricity hasn't been on in at least two days. Which means no heat. And there's no food in the apartment."

"Jesus," JJ sighed. "Do we need to call child services?"

"I think it's bigger than that," Hotch said.

He brushed past her out of the bedroom and knocked lightly on the bathroom door. "Hey, Spencer, can you come out, please?" he said. "We need to talk to you."

He gave it a minute, and eventually Spencer pulled the door open. He was ghostly pale, the bandage on his chin a sharp contrast. He was still wearing the FBI jacket and it swallowed him up, hanging almost to his bare knees and covering his hands. His hair was still damp and tangled, and his sneakers were filthy.

"Hi, kiddo," Hotch said, keeping his voice gentle. "How are you feeling?" Spencer shrugged and pushed the sleeves over hs hands. "This is my friend JJ, she's on the team with me and Derek." JJ smiled at him, but he didn't react. "Can you come talk with us?"

Spencer nodded. Hotch guided him to the living room and nudged him to sit down on the couch. JJ sat down next to him, and he knelt down on the floor. Derek stayed by the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched them.

Spencer sat quietly, his hands tucked under his thighs, his big hazel eyes dull and blank. It was almost as if he'd gone through so much panic and turmoil that everything had seeped out of his little body and left him an empty shell.

"Spencer," Hotch said softly. "Where's your mommy?"

At first he wasn't sure if the child heard him, because he didn't seem to react, but his eyes welled up with tears. But he didn't say anything.

"Is she at work?" JJ asked. "Will she be home soon?"

He shook his head.

"Spencer, how long has your mother been gone?" Hotch asked.

A tear rolled down Spencer's cheek. "My stomach hurts," he said.

He placed his hands on Spencer's knees. "How long has your mother been gone?" he said.

Spencer shifted like he was trying to pull away, but he wasn't fighting hard enough. "My stomach really hurts," he said.

"How long, Spencer?" Hotch said.

"Hotch, you really don't think-" Derek started to say.

"Two months," Spencer blurted out.

Hotch's heart dropped. "Your mother has been gone for two months?" he repeated.

Spencer's shoulders heaved. "She, she left," he said. "Fifty-one days ago. She left me." His mouth trembled. "My mom left me."

It was almost as if he was acknowledging it for the first time. Maybe he was.

"So she's not at work," Hotch said. "She's missing."

Spencer's face crumpled. "It's my fault," he whispered. "I made her mad. I made her mad, and she got upset, and she left. She left me."

"No, that's not it," Morgan said immediately. Spencer pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and choked on a sob, as if he was trying to force himself to keep from crying. Morgan sat down on his other side and rested his broad hand against his narrow back. "Hey, hey, pretty boy, it's not your fault. Not at all. You gotta stop blaming yourself for things you didn't do."

Spencer dropped his gaze to the floor, his shoulders twitching and jerking. A tear dropped off his chin and plopped onto his thin knee. JJ quietly took his hand, linking his fingers through hers.

Hotch took a deep breath, trying to put his thoughts together. Spencer choked on a sob and squeezed JJ's hand tight. "You're not staying here tonight," Hotch said. "You can't stay here alone, and especially not if Michaels is still looking for you. It's not safe." He looked at JJ. "Do you think you could take him for the night?"

"Yeah, absolutely," JJ said immediately. "I'll call Will so he's prepared."

Derek rubbed Spencer's back. "JJ's a good mom, she's got a little boy just a few years younger than you," he said. "You'll be in good hands, okay?"

"Is that okay with you?" Hotch asked. Spencer nodded, silent and numb, his right hand pressing against his mouth as if he wanted to suck his thumb but wasn't sure about it. "We'll bring you back with us to Quantico in the morning and then we'll figure out where to go from there. And we'll start looking for your mom."

Spencer nodded again, but his eyes welled up again, tears rolling down his thin little face. "Go get your stuff, the most important stuff you need, while JJ calls Will," Hotch said, dropping his voice a little softer. "Do you have questions? Anything else you want to talk about or tell us?"

"What about school tomorrow?" he asked.

"You'll get a day off from school," Hotch said. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

Spencer nodded and swiped at his cheeks, trying to stop himself from crying, and he pulled away from them to start packing his belongings in silence.

* * *

JJ glanced back at Spencer in the rearview mirror. He'd fallen asleep the second she started the car, his chin tipped to his chest and his hands limp. He was a little too big for Henry's car seat, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he needed a booster.

It had been a long day, the sort of day when she wanted to take an hour long shower and drink a glass of wine and wake up Henry just so that she could reassure herself that he was alive and safe and happy. Cases with children were always hard, but they were even harder when the case ended like this. There was always a chance that a kidnapped child would turn up dead, but she never wanted to think about it.

She glanced back at the child in her backseat again. Will had taken it in stride when he'd told her that she was bringing a little boy home with her, but still, she was wondering what the hell she was supposed to do with him. They needed to find his family, they needed to put him in witness protection, they probably needed to report the situation to child services.

But there wasn't time for that. It was two in the morning, and they could figure out the big questions once the sun was up. Right now Spencer needed a hot shower, and something to eat, and some sleep. She didn't want to think about how long it had been since he'd gotten any of those things.

She pulled into the garage and parked. He didn't wake up even in the bright white lights, or when she opened the car door. "Spencer," she called softly. "Wake up, sweetie." He sat up sluggishly as she unlatched his seatbelt. "Let's go inside, okay?"

He slid down to the ground and she picked up his things. All of his possessions fit in one suitcase that Derek had found under the bed. And it was mostly books, and clothes that were highly inappropriate for the cold midwinter weather.

She took Spencer by the hand and walked him into the house, closing the garage door behind her. Will was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, but he got up quickly when he heard her steps. "Hey, Jayje," he said. He closed the distance between them quickly and pulled her into a tight hug. JJ hugged him back as tight as she could, burying her face in his chest. For a moment she let herself sink into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. Will kissed the top of her head and she wanted to hide in his arms until things felt normal and safe again, but she didn't have time for that quite yet.

She took a step back, her hands lingering on his strong arms for a moment. "Will, this is Spencer," she said. "Spencer, this is my husband, Will."

Will knelt down to Spencer's eye level. "Hi, buddy," he said softly. "I hear you're gonna stay with us for the night. I've got a place set up for you to sleep, but how about you go take a hot shower? You'll feel better when you're clean and warmed up." Spencer nodded hesitantly. "Come on, I'll show you where the bathroom is. Jayje, there's coffee for you on the counter, it's decaf."

"Oh, thank you," she sighed. "Is Henry asleep?"

"Went to bed right at eight, good as gold," Will said. "Take a second, catch your breath. I'll be right back."

She pulled down a mug from the cabinet as Will walked out with Spencer. The coffee was still piping hot; she added cream and sugar but she didn't drink it. She left it on the counter and headed to Henry's room instead.

Her son was fast asleep in his little bed, sprawled out on his back with his arms over his head. JJ tucked him back in, fixing the blankets and tucking his favorite stuffed animal against his side. She kissed his soft cheek and trailed her fingers through his soft blond hair. Seeing Henry safe made her feel calmer, as if a weight had slipped from her shoulders.

She went back to the kitchen and sat down with coffee, sipping it slowly until Will returned. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"JJ, that kid is skin and bones," he said. "Once I got that FBI jacket off him it was like he shrunk to half the size I thought he was. What's going on with him?"

JJ sighed and sketched it out for him in as quick a summary as she could manage. "Hotch says we'll figure everything out tomorrow, but there was no way he could stay in that hellhole overnight, especially not alone," she said.

"So what do you think is gonna happen to him?" Will asked. "You think you'll be able to find the mother?"

"Maybe," she said. "But she's been gone for two months. There's no telling where she might be, or why she didn't come back. And even if we find her...she might not be a suitable parent to take care of him and keep custody." She drummed her fingertips against the hot ceramic of her coffee mug. "And he needs to go into witsec until we've found the unsub. Gary Michaels killed Riley Jenkins in less than twenty-four hours, and it's pretty clear that he wasn't even his main target, he was just...collateral damage. If he gets his hands on Spencer, it won't be good."

Will hummed thoughtfully. "What do you think is gonna happen to him?" he asked.

"Not a clue," she said.

Will glanced past her. "Speak of the devil," he said. "Hey, buddy, how're you doing?"

JJ turned around. Spencer hovered in the hallway in a pair of his own pajama pants and a tee shirt borrowed from Will, his wet hair making damp splotches on his shoulders. "I'm okay," he said.

"Are you hungry?" Will asked. "You're probably starving, I'd guess. Anything you want to eat in particular?" Spencer hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll find something for you to eat, then. Go on and sit."

Spencer obeyed, pulling himself clumsily to sit next to JJ. He sat silently, his shoulders slumped and his hands resting awkwardly on the table. Will was right, he was too thin- the delicate bones in his wrists jutting through the skin and his collarbone sticking out sharply from the collar of his shirt. He did look a little better now that he was clean, but his face was gaunt and the skin under his eyes purple with exhausted bruising.

William set down a plate of chicken nuggets and a small bowl of applesauce sprinkled with cinnamon in front of him. "I know it's not fancy, but that's what our boy likes when he's had a rough day," he said. "You let me know if you want anything else, okay?"

Spencer picked up a nugget and took a cautious little bite off the edge, and then suddenly he was shoveling food in his mouth like he hadn't had a good meal in weeks. A lump rose in JJ's throat as she realized that maybe he hadn't. She'd taken her own look around the apartment while Spencer packed his things, she'd seen the empty refrigerator herself.

"Slow down a little, sweetie," she said, patting his back lightly. "You're going to choke if you don't take it easy." He slowed down a little, but he still finished it off in record time. "Do you want some more?"

"No, thank you," he said, setting his spoon down cautiously on the plate.

"Let's get you to bed then," JJ said. "Come on."

There was a sleeper couch in Henry's playroom; Will had already gotten it set up and piled with pillows and blankets. Spencer hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn't sure if he should lie down, but she patted one of the pillows and he laid down obediently.

"Get some sleep," she said as she pulled the blankets over him. "I'll wake you up when it's time. Tomorrow we'll go to Quantico first thing in the morning, okay?"

"Will Agent Hotch be there?" he asked. "And Derek, and Alex?"

"Yes, sweetheart, they'll be there," she reassured him. "Now go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight," he said. "Thank you."

She turned off the lights, but she left the door cracked open, letting light from the hallway spill into the room. Somehow she just knew that he shouldn't be left alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my HEART
> 
> Spencer sleeping on Alex's lap is an image that I've in my mind for a long time. We're so close to Mama Alex, I'm so excited.


	9. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer just wants things to go back to normal, but there's no going back. Alex realizes that she can do something, but it's a huge step.

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

_(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)_

* * *

Spencer stared at the dark ceiling. Exhaustion pulled at him, but he was too afraid to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Riley sprawled out on the ground, his glassy eyes staring up at the night sky, and so he forced himself to keep his eyes open.

He was so tense that it hurt, his little body sore and aching with effort of keeping himself awake. At least now he was warm and clean; he didn't want to shower in the dark with ice cold water the past few days.

Everything was too quiet. He'd gotten used to the apartment- other neighbors talking and arguing through the thin walls, the rush of traffic outside, the chug and clank of the old pipes. JJ's house was silent and efficient. Even the ceiling fan didn't seem to make a noise.

There was too much. Everything was too much. It was too quiet and his heartbeat was too loud and the tag of the borrowed shirt scratched the back of his neck and the pillows felt wrong and the blankets were too hot but if he pushed them back he'd be too cold.

He stuck his thumb in his mouth. He wasn't sure what time it was, but the hallway light shining into the room was reassuring. It was just enough light that he could make out the shapes of the playroom- a television and shelves of movies, a pile of stuffed animals, a little basketball hoop, a toy box. JJ's son was lucky. All those toys, and a whole room just to keep them in. He probably had plenty of clothes too, and books.

He was still hungry, but his stomach twisted tight with nausea. Maybe it was just the stress. Even with the vague threat of throwing up again lurking in the back of his mind, he still wished he'd asked JJ's husband for more to eat. He couldn't remember the last time someone had made him food at home.

No, he did remember. A Friday night, in early November. His mom had had a good day, and she'd made him grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but the milk she added to the canned soup was slightly sour and she burned the bread so badly it was inedible.

He pulled the blankets tighter around himself and rolled over onto his side, keeping his thumb in his mouth. It would be okay. It had to be. The agents would keep him safe, and they'd help him find his mom, and they could pack everything up and go home to their house in Las Vegas and everything would be back to normal.

The agents were nice. They really were. They didn't treat him like a baby, they talked to him like he was a grown up. And they were worried about him, he could tell.

For a moment he almost wished that Alex had been the one to take him home instead. She thought he was smart, and she talked to him about books, and she had the nicest softest voice he'd ever heard. And she'd stayed with him the whole time. He couldn't remember the last time someone picked him up or rubbed his back or took care of him.

He took a deep breath. He needed to just calm down. He needed to sleep, and in the morning JJ would take him to her office, and they would find Gary Michaels and they would find his mother and all of this could be a memory.

He closed his eyes. He saw Riley lying on the pavement, blood and rain slicking his bright blond curls away from his stark white face, his blue eyes staring up at the night sky.

Spencer opened his eyes with a startled shriek. He sat up, curling himself into a little ball against the pillows, and he waited for the night to be over.

* * *

JJ woke with a start. The room was still dark and silent; she could barely make out Will's shape against the white closet doors.

"Sorry, darlin'," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

She rolled over onto her back, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "What time is it?" she mumbled.

"About seven thirty."

She bolted upright. "Oh my god, I forgot to set my alarm," she said, climbing hastily out of bed and switching on the bedside lamp. "I have to wake up Henry, we have to get him to school-"

"Don't worry about it, already done," Will said. "He's up and dressed and fed. Once he gets his shoes on and I've got my coat I'm taking him to school."

JJ sighed heavily and sank back down on the edge of the bed. "Thank you so much," she sighed.

Will kissed her forehead as he pulled his jacket on. "You just worry about getting Spencer squared away," he said. "Do you think he'll need to stay again tonight?"

"No idea," she said. "We need to find his mother, we probably need to get him into witsec. He needs a permanent placement. Maybe with a foster family if his own family can't be located."

"You think we could take him?" Will asked quietly. She bit her lip. "He's a sweet kid, Jayje. And he's gone through a lot of shit. He might not make it out if he gets tossed into the foster system."

JJ raked her hair back. "I'm not sure," she said. "I don't think he'd do well in foster care either, to tell you the truth. But he's going to need guardians who can focus on him. Balancing a traumatized kid and a five-year-old would be tough."

"That's a fair point," Will said. "But when y'all are talking about it today, just know that I'd be fine with him staying with us, even on a temporary basis until a better home can be found for him."

She smiled up at him. "I love you a lot, you know that?" she said.

Will grinned and bent to kiss her, but he was interrupted by a small blond tornado racing into the room. "Mommy!" Henry cheered, leaping onto her lap. "Good morning, Mommy!"

JJ hugged him tight and pressed kisses to his cheeks. "Good morning, jellybean," she said. "Did Daddy get you all ready for school?"

"Uh-huh," he said, holding onto her shoulders. "Do you have to fly tonight?"

"No, baby, I'm in the office today, so I'll be home tonight for dinner," she said. "We can watch a movie and eat popcorn tonight, okay? Will that be fun?"

Henry's eyes lit up. "Can we watch Toy Story?" he said. "Please? Can we watch it?"

Will groaned silently behind him; JJ bit back a grin. Henry had a tendency to watch the same movie repeatedly for weeks before abruptly switching. This would be the third viewing that week. "Sure, honey, we can watch Toy Story," she said. "Give me a hug and kiss so Daddy can take you to school, okay?"

Henry obeyed before sliding down from her lap and grabbing onto Will's hand. "See you tonight, beautiful," he said. "But call me if you need me. Remember what I said."

"I'll remember," she promised.

She made the bed and reached for her favorite cardigan as Will and Henry's footsteps faded on the stairs. Hotch had told her she could come in as late as she needed to with Spencer, and the boy had to still be asleep. Doubtless she had plenty of time to make coffee, maybe get breakfast ready for him before he woke up.

She headed down the stairs, pulling her cardigan closed around her, and peeked into the playroom. "Oh!" she said, startled. "Have you been awake for a while?"

She hadn't expected him to be awake, but Spencer was sitting up on the sleeper couch bed, not even leaning back against the pillows, his thumb in his mouth. "A little while," he echoed.

"You can go back to sleep, sweetheart, we don't have to be at Quantico until you're ready," she said.

"No, I can get up," he said.

She flipped on the lights. He did look much better than he had the night before with his face scrubbed clean, but his hair was tangled and he still seemed droopy and tired. And Will was right- he was thin as a rail, his cheeks hollowed and his wrists bony. "Well, let's get some breakfast, then," she said. "Are you hungry for anything in particular?" He shook his head. "I'll go make something. Go ahead and get dressed, and come down to the kitchen when you're ready."

He nodded silently. JJ closed the door behind her as she headed back down the hall. He was so quiet, and it worried her. Maybe he was naturally a quiet kid, maybe the trauma was affecting him already. After all, he found the dead body of his playmate just over twelve hours earlier. And before that...she couldn't even fathom the idea of a little boy living alone for two months without anyone noticing or caring.

She pulled a box of waffles out of the freezer and dropped two in the toaster before pouring herself a cup of coffee. It would have been nice to get a little extra sleep, but if he was already awake, no point in trying to get him to sleep longer. Most likely he was worried about what was going to happen to him. She couldn't blame him for being nervous. It had to be scary for him, getting thrown with all these strange grown ups and having to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.

When the waffles popped in the toaster she slathered them with peanut butter and covered them with sliced bananas and strawberries. She wasn't sure if he would like it, but Henry did, so maybe he would too. She had just set the plate down on the table when Spencer peeked into the kitchen.

"Hi, sweetheart, you're just in time," she said. "Sit down and eat. It's just toaster waffles, but we have some other things if you'd like. Do you want something different?"

Spencer's eyes went owlishly round. "No, thank you," he said.

JJ poured him orange juice into one of Henry's plastic cups and set it down in front of him. "Take your time eating," she said. "I just need to get dressed, and when you're ready we'll head out."

Spencer nodded as he tentatively picked up one of the waffles. He nibbled along the edge cautiously. "I'll be right back," she said.

She got dressed quickly and put on enough makeup to look awake and presentable. If she had to hold another press conference about the Jenkins boy, she had an entire "I have to be on TV" makeup kit somewhere in her desk. Most likely she'd just be in the office, and she had a sneaking suspicion that it would be a long day.

She headed back to the kitchen to find Spencer sitting at the table with an empty plate and an empty cup in front of him. "Are you still hungry?" she asked. "We have time, I can make you another one."

"No, thank you," he said. He was still so quiet, and stiff, as if he was afraid to move too much. "I'm ready to go."

She picked up his dishes. "Go get your shoes and your coat, then," she said. She set the dishes down in the sink, but when she turned around he hadn't moved. "Are you okay?"

"I don't have a coat," he said blankly.

JJ hesitated. She should have thought that through. "Well, Will washed your clothes from last night, we can get your hoodie out of the dryer," she said. "But let me check, we might have something you can borrow. Go get your shoes and your bag."

He slid down from the chair, avoiding eye contact. JJ bit back a sigh. Maybe Will was on to something- maybe they should keep him, just to make sure for her own sanity that he was someplace safe and protected.

* * *

"Garcia. Stop pacing. He's not here yet."

Penelope jumped. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to check," she said.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I told JJ to let him sleep in as much as she needed to," he said. "It's only a little past nine, I'd be surprised if they're here before eleven."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Poor little thing, he has to be exhausted." Without thinking she peered around the hallway, trying to see through the glass doors to the bank of elevators.

"Garcia," Hotch said, the barest hint of mirth in his voice.

"I know! It's early! I'm sorry!" she said. "I'm just- he's just a _baby_. I can't stop thinking about it. I want to see him."

"Trust me, as soon as they get here, I'll let you know," Hotch said. "In the meantime, get set up in the conference room and get everyone else caught up."

"All right, all right, fine," Penelope sighed. "But the _second_ they get here-"

"I promise. Go."

She walked briskly down the hall with her laptop tucked under her arm. This was absolutely killing her. It wasn't unheard of for team members to take a child under their wing- Derek staying in touch with Ellie Spicer came to mind- but this was different. This was big. This was close to home.

Derek, Rossi, and Emily sat at the table with cups of coffee in front of them; Emily was idly stirring the contents but clearly hadn't taken a sip yet. "Anything yet?" Derek asked.

"On JJ and the little munchkin, no," she said as she opened up her laptop. "Details on the case, some."

"Morgan just got us caught up on what happened last night while we were with the Jenkins family," Rossi said. "Was that kid really living alone for two months?"

"Fifty-one days, and yes," Penelope said. "Completely alone."

"Do you have any information on his mother yet?" Emily asked.

"Not on the mother, but some on Gary Michaels," she said. "Which reminds me-"

Alex walked into the conference room and set her bag down on her usual chair. "What about Gary Michaels?" she asked. "Has he been located? Is Spencer all right?"

"Not...exactly," Penelope said. She looked wildly at Derek. This was not the kind of thing she wanted to explain.

Alex paused, her coat half unbuttoned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, not exactly?" she said.

Derek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Hotch and I took Spencer back to his apartment," he said. "Gary Michaels was waiting for him."

"Oh my god," Alex said. "Is Spencer safe? Where is he?"

"He's safe, don't worry," Rossi said quickly. Alex didn't seem assured, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

"Hotch took him up to the apartment and called for backup while I went after Michaels," Derek said. "I didn't get to him fast enough."

"We've got some information that I'm working on, though," Penelope said.

"So where's Spencer?" Alex asked. "Where's his mother?"

Penelope bit her lip. "There isn't a mom," she said. "At least right now. His mother's missing."

"For how long?" Alex demanded. "When did that happen?"

"Spencer says she walked out on him two months ago," Emily said quietly.

All the color drained from Alex's face. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Why didn't we pick up on that? Why didn't I see that?"

"He's been taking care of himself and hasn't told a soul," Rossi said. "You talked to his teachers. None of them picked up on it, and they've had him in class for over half a school year."

"Where is he now?" Alex asked.

"JJ took him for the night," Derek said. "That apartment was uninhabitable. The power had been cut off, it was filthy, there was nothing to eat. There was no way the kid could stay there, even if his mother was there."

"Oh, god," Alex said. "But he's okay? He's safe?"

Hotch walked into the conference room. "He's fine, JJ is bringing him in now," he said. "She texted me to make sure he'd have the security clearance to come up here." He checked his watch. "They'll be up any minute now. We need to figure out what to do with him."

"What can we do with him?" Emily asked.

Penelope fidgeted with her charm bracelets as they argued. "He needs to go into witsec," Rossi said.

"But we can't send a little kid into witness protection alone," Derek objected. "We need to figure out what happened to his mother. Ideal scenario is that we locate her, and put her and the kid together into witsec."

Hotch frowned. "That might not be a good idea," he said. "The apartment was in bad shape, and not just from two months without an adult. There's a high possibility that Spencer's mother wasn't caring for him properly in the first place, and if that's the case he shouldn't be left alone with her."

"Garcia, do you have any information on the mother?" Emily asked.

Penelope let go of her charm bracelet with a delicate clatter. "Not yet," she said. "I do have some information on Gary Michaels, though. Mostly that Gary Michaels isn't his real name. I haven't found his real name yet, but I know that he works on the repair squad of a local electronics store, and I've located his home."

"Morgan and Prentiss, I want the two of you to check out the house," Hotch said. "Rossi, I want you to go with JJ to his work once she gets here and talk to his employers. Alex and I will talk to Spencer." Alex nodded. She had stayed standing, her arms crossed, completely still but frowning at the floor, as if she was deep in her own thoughts.

"And I will keep looking for information on Diana Reid," Penelope said. "Hopefully I'll get something useful soon." She sighed. "Hopefully."

The conference room door tapped open. "Hey, everyone, we made it," JJ said.

She ushered a child into the room and closed the door behind them. Penelope looked him up and down, her heart already melting. He was a beautiful little boy, all big hazel eyes and shaggy light brown hair, his downturned mouth a bit too wide in his delicate face. But she saw quickly that his shoes were in bad shape, and his jeans were too baggy on his thin legs, and his coat was just a little bit too tight.

She recognized that coat. She was the one who had bought that coat. She'd found it in an after Christmas sale and impulsively bought it even though she knew it would be a little too big for Henry. It was a cute coat, and he'd grow into it eventually, and as Henry's godmother she _had_ to spoil him, she was legally obligated.

How did a coat that was a little bit too big on a five-year-old fit almost perfectly on a nine-year-old?

The rest of the team were saying hello to Spencer and he wasn't saying much in response. He seemed dazed, almost stunned into silence. "Spencer, this is the last member of our team," JJ said. "This is Penelope Garcia, she's our technical analyst."

"Resident computer genius," she clarified. "Hi, Spencer. It's really nice to meet you." She tilted her head. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here and you're safe. You are in the best of hands, okay?"

Spencer didn't respond. Hotch looked down at the solemn, silent child. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," JJ said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Have I missed anything?"

Spencer seemed to shrink into himself as the adults talked over his head, getting JJ caught up. For a moment Penelope debated getting his attention and distracting him from all the serious grownup talk, but it might do more harm than good for yet another unfamiliar adult to start talking to him.

Alex crossed over to him and knelt down, taking his hands in both of hers. "Hi," she said softly. "I heard you had a rough night after I left you." Spencer nodded, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Alex rubbed her thumbs over the backs of his hands. "We're going to take care of it now, okay? You don't have to worry. We'll get this all figured out."

He nodded, and now it almost looked like he was trying to smile but he couldn't manage it. A lock of hair drooped over his forehead and Alex smoothed it back.

"Spencer, I want you to come with me and Agent Blake so we can talk," Hotch said. "Everyone else, you know where you're supposed to go." He paused. "Garcia, can you come with us too? You might be able to work with the information Spencer is able to give us."

"Yes!" she said, scooping up her laptop swiftly. "Absolutely, yes, I am here to help."

Alex straightened up, but she still held Spencer's hand, and Penelope saw his slim fingers curl around hers. It made her heart squeeze unexpectedly, and she wasn't exactly sure why.

* * *

On one hand, they needed to get answers quickly. On the other hand, Hotch had no inclination to rush Spencer. The shock was written all over his pale, pinched little face. The kid had gone through massive trauma, after months of abandonment, and there was no telling how much neglect or even abuse he'd experienced before that.

He quietly rearranged the furniture in his tidy office so that Spencer could sit on the couch with Alex, and he and Penelope could sit nearby in chairs rather than placing his desk between them. Looming over the child as an authority wouldn't do anything to reassure him in his already shaky state.

Alex had taken his borrowed coat, draping it over the arm of the couch, and Penelope had magically procured him a cup of hot chocolate- the good kind with the mini marshmallows in it, not the plain packet from the breakroom. Spencer held Penelope's octopus cup with both hands, occasionally pausing to take a careful sip.

"I don't think this octopus has enough tentacles," he said. "There should be eight."

"Oh, yes, hence the name," Alex said. "Octo for eight. You know, they discovered a six tentacled octopus. So they call him a hexapus. Henry the hexapus."

Spencer smiled for the first time since Hotch had met him yesterday, making a dimple pop in his cheek. "Sometimes octopi lose tentacles because they get bored and eat them," he said.

"I can safely say I haven't heard that before," Alex said.

Penelope shivered. "Oh, that gives me the heebie-jeebies," she said. "I got that mug because I thought it was cute. I don't want to think about the poor thing eating its own arms. But do you know what? They have too many arms. Eight is way too many. Too many extra body parts."

Spencer tilted his head. "The giant Pacific octopus has three hearts and nine brains," he reported.

Penelope shivered again."Too many! Too many things!" she exclaimed, and Spencer almost laughed.

"Do you want to be a marine biologist when you grow up?" Hotch asked, barely hiding a smile.

"Maybe," Spencer said. "I like science a lot. And math." He shifted his weight, his legs too short for his toes to touch the ground. "I've thought about becoming a scientist, maybe with a focus in chemistry. Or a physicist. Or a psychologist. Or a professor."

Alex sat up a little straighter. "Did you know that Agent Blake is a professor?" Hotch said.

"When I'm not here, I teach at Georgetown," she said. "I'm a professor of linguistics."

Spencer's eyes widened. "Really?" he said. "My mom is a professor, she teaches medieval literature."

Hotch caught Alex's eye; hopefully she would follow his train of thought. "Where does your mom teach?" he asked.

"University of Nevada," Spencer said.

"Reno or Las Vegas?"

"Las Vegas," he said. "I was born and raised there. Until we moved."

"That's a long ways away," Alex said. "When did you move here?"

"Last spring," Spencer said. He faltered. "Almost a year ago. Mom took a sabbatical so she could write a book. She wanted a change of scenery."

His voice had fallen into something flat, robotic, as if he was reciting something from memory. "What's your mom's book about?" Alex asked, trying to draw him back.

"The influence of Chaucer on the works of Marlowe, Spenser, and Shakespeare," he said. The light had faded completely from his eyes. "I don't think her book is going really well, though."

"How can you tell?"

Spencer shrugged. "She was smoking a lot, and drinking a lot," he said. "Before she left. It's always a bad sign."

"Do you remember what happened the day your mom left?" Hotch asked.

"I remember," Spencer said dully. He looked down at the mug in his hands. "She hadn't left her room in a while, so I made her hot chocolate. I put it down in the wrong spot, and she got mad."

"How did your mom get mad?" Alex asked softly.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. "She yelled," he said finally. "She grabbed my wrist. And she held too hard. She spanked me. She, um...she hit my face." He kept staring down at the mug, as if he was pretending they weren't in the room. "She told me to be quiet. To stop crying. And then she, um...she left."

Alex quietly took the mug out of Spencer's hand and set it aside, then wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "And that was the last time you saw her?" Hotch asked. Spencer nodded. "Before that, did she yell at you or hit you a lot?"

"She doesn't mean to," Spencer said. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "She's sick. I shouldn't have made her upset."

"Honey, you didn't do anything wrong," Penelope said, her hands clasping her laptop tight. Spencer still didn't look up.

"What do you mean when you say your mom is sick?" Hotch asked.

Spencer exhaled slowly. "Paranoid schizophrenia," he said. "She was diagnosed before I was even born."

Hotch tried to keep his expression calm and unfazed. It wouldn't do the kid any good for him to show his concern. But god, he was concerned. The farther they unraveled this case, the worse it got.

"Where do you think your mother might have gone?" he said instead.

Spencer raised and lowered one shoulder. "I don't have any idea," he said. "I've been looking. I really have. I tried."

"I know you did," Alex reassured him. "I know you did your best."

"Do you think she might have tried to get in contact with your father?" Hotch asked.

"No," Spencer said immediately. "Not at all. He hasn't talked to us since I was six." He shivered, and as if he wasn't thinking about it he leaned into Alex's side. "Are you going to find my mom, Agent Hotch?"

"We're doing our best to find her, buddy," Hotch said, keeping his voice gentle. He didn't want to get Spencer's hopes up, but he couldn't lie to him either. "In the meantime, though, you can't live by yourself."

"Because Gary Michaels might be targeting me," Spencer said.

"Yes, and-" Hotch stopped midsentence. Maybe now wasn't the best time to point out to a nine-year-old that he was on the brink of eviction and his home belonged on an episode of Hoarders. "We may need to put you in the witness protection program. Do you know what that is?"

Spencer nodded. "It was established as part of the Organized Crime Control Act in 1970, but the first version of the program was made in the 1960s," he said. "There's about nineteen thousand people in witness security right now."

"That's right," Hotch said. "Now, I've got Agent Prentiss and Agent Morgan following a lead right now, but we may need to place you in witsec until we can catch Michaels. Ideally, we'll be able to locate your mother so you can be together, but if not, we may have to temporarily place you with a foster family."

Alex blinked, startled. "Is that the usual protocol?" she asked.

"Honestly, not a lot of this is standard," Hotch said. "There's a lot of special circumstances with this case. But we'll figure it out."

Spencer nodded. Hotch wasn't sure if he believed him yet, but he wouldn't blame him for being skeptical.

* * *

"Well, I'll tell you one thing for sure," Emily said as she slammed the door of the SUV. "Michaels went out of his way to get to Spencer and Riley. This place is...what, forty-five minutes from the park?"

Derek dropped the keys in his pocket. "Yeah, he was definitely trying to cover his tracks," he said.

Emily stepped back and scrutinized the house as Derek conferred with the local police, squinting in the pale winter sunlight. It was a one story ranch, mid-nineties construction, in an older neighborhood. The street was lined in leafless oak trees and a rusty chain link fence circled the small yard. They'd profiled him living in a rented location rather than a home he owned; his landlord hadn't had much to say other than he'd always paid the rent on time in the two years he'd lived there.

"He's not here," Derek called.

Emily tugged on the edge of her flak vest and followed him to the front door. "Maybe Rossi will catch him at work," she said.

"Somehow I doubt it," he said. "Looks like he left in a hurry."

Emily stepped into the house as she pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket and tugged them on. Just like they expected, it was neat and sparsely furnished, devoid of knickknacks and personal touches. The couch was old and so was the television set up on the small side table.

"We did a sweep," Derek said. "Looks like he took the bare essentials and fled."

"Any sign of where he might have killed Riley?" Emily asked.

Derek shook his head. "I don't think he brought him back here at all, there's no sign in my initial sweep," he said. "Rossi might be right, he might've stayed closer to the park, maybe even killed Riley in his car. I'm gonna go check out the grounds if you want to keep looking through the house."

Emily nodded. "I've got it," she said.

The house was unremarkable- old but sturdy furniture, carpet that could do with a deep cleaning, beige walls scraped and marked in the soft paint. The kitchen was clean but the appliances dated; the fridge held frozen meals and canned sodas. The tiled bathroom was empty of toiletries and a single damp towel was left on the floor.

They'd profiled him as single; it was clear no one but Gary lived in the house. The bed was pushed against the wall with a faded comforter and a pillow without a case. But Derek was right, he'd left in a hurry. The closet doors and dresser drawers stood open and cockeyed, revealing empty hangers and missing clothing.

She walked into the den and frowned. There were multiple computer monitors set up on a plain desk, flanked by a scanner/copier combo and a photo printer, with an expensive ergonomic office chair placed in front of it. Apparently this was where Michaels spent all of his money.

She nudged the mouse and the computer screens flickered to life, casting neon blue light throughout the room. It was set to a password login screen, and she'd worked with Garcia long enough to know that she shouldn't try to hack it herself. In any case, she had a nauseating suspicion of what she might find on that computer, and she didn't have any interest in seeing that.

She opened the desk drawers. The top drawer held ballpoint pens and stubby pencils; the middle drawer held rubber bands and random junk. The third drawer was packed with hanging file folders and she rifled through them carefully. The first few were standard- important papers and tax information. But the rest of the folders were dated, organized by month and day with typed labels, and she caught her breath as she sorted through the contents.

She almost didn't hear Derek come in behind her. "Rossi called, Michaels didn't show up to work today," he said. "Apparently he's a model employee. Quiet, clocks in on time, doesn't cause trouble, does good work."

"Mm-hm," she said absently.

Derek crouched down beside her. "What'd you find?" he asked.

Emily pulled out one of the folders and spread out the contents. "He's been watching Spencer for months," she said quietly.

Each folder held multiple pictures of Spencer- all taken at a distance, all of them unposed candids. "Jesus," Derek breathed. "How far does that go back?"

"Almost a whole year," Emily said. "He was driving the forty-five minutes to the park at least once a week, just on the off chance of seeing Spencer."

"Is Riley in any of the photos?"

Emily shook her head. "Not exactly," she said. "He's in the background in a couple of them, along with a couple of other boys around the same age, but he was only focused on Spencer."

Derek was quiet for a moment. "I'll go call Hotch," he said.

"Call Garcia too, tell her there's a computer that needs to be hacked," she said.

* * *

Alex had never been so glad to carry so many books with her. She'd spent her adolescence lugging novels and biographies to and from the school library in her backpack; James had teased her mercilessly in their college days for carrying a book in her purse. But she had always been a voracious reader, and on more than a few occasions she'd been able to fill some downtime with a book. Now, though, it meant she had something to give to Spencer while he waited for them to decide his fate.

She glanced up from her laptop to check up on him again. Hotch had given them free reign of his office for the time being; Spencer was curled up in the corner of the couch with her copy of Jane Eyre, his feet tucked up underneath him. He looked exhausted though, his fingers pressed against his mouth and his eyes half closed. At least he seemed marginally better than he had the day before; his baggy jeans had to be warmer than the shorts he'd worn the day before, but his plain gray tee shirt swallowed him and made him seem even thinner than he already was.

"What do you think of the book so far?" she asked.

"I like it," he said. He rubbed his eye sleepily. "I haven't read much of the Bronte sisters, my mom prefers Jane Austen. But I've never really liked Austen."

"Oh, me neither," Alex said. She got up from the desk and crossed the room to sit beside him. "Austen is perfectly fine, but she's never been my favorite. The real question to me is which Bronte sister- Emily, Anne, or Charlotte?"

Spencer smiled. "I'll get back to you on that," he said. His smile faded almost as soon as it appeared. "Alex?"

She rested her hand lightly on his back. "What, sweetheart?"

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked quietly.

Alex bit back a sigh. "We're going to figure that out," she said. "The most important thing right now is making sure you're safe."

He looked up at her. "What if you can't find Gary Michaels?" he asked quietly. "Or my mother?"

Alex hugged him against her side. "Hopefully we will," she said. She brushed his hair back from his forehead. "The unknown is scary. But no matter what, we'll keep you safe."

The office door opened and Spencer jumped, pressing himself tighter against her side. "Hey, everything okay?" Hotch asked.

Alex rubbed Spencer's back. "Yeah, yeah, we're fine," she said.

"Good. Blake, can I borrow you out here for a second?" he said.

"Sure," she said. She leaned Spencer away from her gently, but she gave him a loving little squeeze as she shifted him. "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

Hotch closed the door partway behind them as she followed him into the hall. "I have updates," he said in a low voice.

"I'm guessing not good ones, by the look of it," she said.

"No. Michaels is gone. He didn't show up for work and his car is gone," Hotch said. "And Prentiss found hundreds of photos of Spencer that Michaels took."

Her heart skipped a beat. "And when you say photos-"

"Surveillance style," Hotch clarified. "He stalked him for a while before he finally struck up a conversation with him, and he kept up the photo taking after that. Blake, Spencer needs to go into protective custody. Even if Michaels is gone for now, he won't stay gone."

"What about his mother?" Alex asked. "Has Penelope found anything?"

Hotch's frown deepened. "She found...some things," he said. He glanced through the crack in the door at Spencer. "Go down to her office and talk to her about that, she only gave me a basic rundown. I'll stay with Spencer."

Alex nodded. She followed Hotch's gaze; Spencer had gone back to his book, fidgeting absently with the hem of his tee shirt. "I'll be right back," she said.

She made her down to Penelope's office, mentally running through a million possibilities of what she might have discovered. Maybe she'd found Spencer's mother. She still had her reservations about sending Spencer back with her- strong reservations- but he clearly wanted to be reunited. And if the boy had to go into witsec, maybe it would turn out for the best if he was with his own mother and not a stranger.

Penelope's lab was dim, lit by her computer screens and multiple strings of pink and blue and yellow fairy lights. Alex couldn't help but smile a little at the sight "Hey, Garcia," she said. "Hotch sent me your way, he said you found something."

"I did," Penelope said. "You might want to pull up a chair. It's a lot."

Alex frowned. "What do you mean?"

Penelope turned her chair around to face her. "So first of all, nothing on Michaels," she said. "Still working on that. But Spencer's mother-"

"Have you found her?"

"No. Not exactly," Penelope said. "I found a record of a woman matching her description who was brought to a shelter downtown three weeks ago, but she was gone the next morning."

Alex bit her lip. This was what she was afraid of. If she did have schizophrenia like Spencer said, she could be in the throes of a psychotic break. "Downtown is pretty far," she said quietly. "And that's the only thing you can find?"

"I'm checking hospitals and morgues for Jane Does."

"That's definitely worse case scenario," she said.

"That's not even all of it," Penelope said, the light glinting off her glasses. "I've found other information about Diana Reid. And Spencer."

"What did you find?" Alex asked.

"Well, Spencer's right, Diana was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when she was twenty-one, just out of undergrad and starting her masters," Penelope said. "She married Spencer's father when she was twenty-five, Spencer was born six months later. I'm guessing he was the reason they got married in the first place."

"Any other information on the father?" Alex said.

Penelope shrugged. "His name is William, he graduated from law school, he filed for divorce when Spencer was six, and he sends child support checks like clockwork from a secured account," she said. "That's all I've got. Well, that and the fact that he still has parental rights, but not a shared custody agreement. Diana has had full custody the whole time, Spencer hasn't visited his father since he left."

"No other family?"

"Some great aunts and great uncles scattered across the midwest, but no close family, no," Penelope said. "Just the two of them for the past few years."

"So if we don't find his mother, there's no one else who can take him," Alex said.

Penelope sighed heavily. "Well," she hedged. "I don't know if sending him with his mother is the best plan either."

"Why?"

Penelope pulled up a screen on her computer monitor. "There's been...incidents," she said quietly. "Diana's gotten herself into some trouble. She was on probation at her university and the house in Las Vegas was in foreclosure. Multiple credit cards, all maxed out. Her driver's license was suspended too, she had a lot of traffic violations. And I mean _a lot_. And then I found the scariest one."

"What was it?" Alex asked.

Penelope took a deep breath. "When Spencer was three, Diana left him in the backseat of her car when she went to work," she said. "A sophomore walking by saw him and called the police, he almost didn't make it."

"Oh my god," Alex breathed. "I hope he doesn't remember. Did anything come from that?"

"CPS investigated, but apparently they dropped the case," Penelope said. "However, if you read between the lines like I do, it's pretty apparent that the lawyer husband talked them out of it."

Alex sat back, letting the information sink in and settle. "What about Spencer?" she asked. "Anything specific you found about him?"

"A few things that might be red flags," Penelope said. "His medical records are a mess, for one. There's no indication that he's seen a doctor since he was six, and I don't know if he's ever seen a dentist. He's so smart, though. His academic testing had him on a high school level as a kindergartener. Most kindergarteners can barely write their own name, apparently he was already reading chapter books and could do long division. He skipped second grade completely."

Alex tapped her fingertips against her chin. "Where do we go from here?" she said.

Penelope shrugged. "Probably finding him a foster family who could protect him in witsec," she said. "I don't know how on earth we'll be able to find that though, that seems practically impossible. But he can't go alone."

Alex's heart thudded against her ribs. "Can you-" she started to say. She cleared her throat. "Can you hold on for about twenty minutes? I might...I might have an idea. I just have to make a phone call."

"Yeah, of course," Penelope said. She frowned. "Is there something going on? Something I should know about? I feel like this is something I should know about."

"Maybe," Alex said. "I'll be right back."

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and clutched it tight as she walked out to the elevator. There was a distinct chance that this wasn't a good idea, that she was overstepping her bounds, that she was making a huge mistake. But she couldn't help the sudden sense of excitement bubbling up in her chest.

Outside the sky was a sharp thin blue, cold and brittle. For a moment she wished she'd grabbed her coat, but there wasn't time for that. Her fingers fumbled to pull up James's phone number.

He answered on the third ring. "Hey, beautiful, how's it going?" he said.

"It's...it's good, things are good," she said. "Have you given your presentation yet?"

"Just finished," he said. Alex crossed her arms tight over her chest, trying to keep herself warm as she looked over the parking lot. "It's kind of nice to be in New York City again. You should come up with me next time I need to stop by the Doctors Without Borders headquarters. It's been a long time since we've gone on a trip together."

"Oh, yeah, that would be great," she said.

He paused. "Something's got you distracted, Al," he said. "What's going on? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," she said. Her mouth went dry. "What would you think if we brought home a foster child? Today."

"Today?" James repeated. "We still haven't gotten all the way through the application process. Did something happen?"

"Sort of," Alex said. "It's kind of a long story. But there's a little boy sitting in Hotch's office right now, he's nine years old. James, he's the sweetest kid. He's so smart, and articulate, and...and he's scared. He's so scared, he's in a lot of trouble, and I can't bear the thought of him getting tossed out into witsec alone."

James didn't say anything.

"Are you still there?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm just figuring out how I can change my train ticket," James said. "I can get home in two hours. You're still at work?"

"Yeah, I'm still at work," she said. "You're...you're okay with this?"

"I trust you," James said.

"It probably won't be permanent," Alex warned. "He just needs to stay safe for a while."

"That's fine," James said. "I'm on my way. Keep me updated."

"I will," Alex said. "I'm going to talk to the team, there's- there's a lot of things to figure out." She pressed her hand to her temple. "Oh my god. Are we ready to have a child in our house?"

"No idea, but we'll figure it out," James said. "I'll see you soon, okay? I love you."

"I love you too," she said, and she hung up the phone in a daze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O O P the Spencer section made me so sad I had to take a break. he's in such bad shape, poor baby angel. but we're so close to mom Alex!! and that means I'll start writing the next arc with him adjusting to life with the Blakes. (let me know if there's anything you'd like to see for that!!)


	10. sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and James want to take Spencer home with them, but they don't know if they can

_sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur_

(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)

* * *

It had been a long time since they'd had a case end this badly. The knowledge that a little boy was dead and another child was in danger weighed heavy on Dave's shoulders. And it didn't seem like they would find Gary Michaels any time soon. He and JJ had gone through every inch of the big box electronics store where Michaels worked and talked to every coworker there. No one had seen him that day, and no one could give them any new information.

He pulled his usual mug from the cabinet. Caffeine was probably not the best idea right that second, but he needed something to distract himself. He poured in a generous amount as his mind wandered.

"Rossi, you're back?"

He turned around to see Alex standing in the hall. "JJ and I got back around twenty minutes ago," he said.

"Anything useful at Michaels' work?" she asked.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," he said. "I'm guessing he left town as soon as he saw Hotch and Morgan at the kid's apartment." He dumped a creamer into his coffee. "How's the kid doing?"

"He's...he's okay, all things considered," Alex said. "He's scared, and worried, but he's okay."

"They're still putting him in witsec?"

Alex nodded and exhaled slowly, as if she was trying to steady herself. "Can I ask a favor of you?" she asked.

"Of course," he said. He tilted his head. "What's going on?"

Alex raked her hair back from her face. "I'd like you to sit in on a meeting I'm about to have with Hotch and Garcia," she said.

He frowned. "What's the meeting about?" he asked. "Are you in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing like that," she said. She smiled, her eyes a little bit too bright. "It's a good thing. At least, I think it's a good thing. I hope it is."

"Are you going to give me any other details than that, or are you just enjoying being cryptic?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Unexpectedly Alex laughed. "I'm sorry, I just...oh, I don't know how to explain," she said. She brushed her hair back from her face again. "They're looking for a foster family to take Spencer in witsec, since his mother can't be located."

"Is that what the meeting is about, finding foster parents for him?" Dave guessed.

"Yes," she said. "Sort of. I-" She pressed her mouth together. "James and I want to take him."

Her words rushed out as if she was afraid to say them out loud. Dave stared at her in shock. "Wow," he said. "Blake, I...wow. You're sure?"

"Pretty sure," she said. "James is in New York for a presentation at the Doctors Without Borders headquarters, he's on a train back right now."

"Wow," he said again. He couldn't think of anything else to say. "So you're bringing it up to Hotch?"

"And that's why I want you there, you...you know things that he doesn't," Alex said. "I thought...maybe you'd support me on this, and help sway his decision?"

"Of course," Dave said. "Of course I will. You and James…" His voice trailed off. It seemed wrong to say _you were great parents_. "I think you two will take good care of the kid."

She smiled, bright enough that it met her eyes. It suddenly struck him that he hadn't seen Alex smile that brightly in years. "I'm going to go talk to Spencer," she said. "I'd like to ask him what he thinks. But the meeting will be in the conference room in fifteen minutes."

"I'll be there," he promised.

She walked away quickly with a last smile. Dave set his coffee mug back down on the counter. It had been so long since he'd seen Alexandra Blake genuinely happy, and he had never realized it.

* * *

Spencer closed the book and hugged it to his chest, curling himself into the corner of the couch. He still had a little bit left to read, but his eyes felt so heavy and his head ached. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to actually sleep well, and he certainly hadn't slept the night before. The threat of bad dreams still lingered in the back of his mind, but the exhaustion weighing him down seemed to be winning.

The office door opened and he sat up quickly, his head spinning as he moved too fast. "Hi," Alex said softly. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I'm awake," he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

Alex sat down beside him. "I wanted to talk to you for a minute," she said.

"Have you found my mom?" he asked. "Have you found Gary Michaels?"

"No, sweetheart, not yet," she said. "We're still looking though."

His heart sank. If even the FBI couldn't find his mother, maybe no one ever would.

"Until we locate Gary Michaels, you'll need to go into witness protection to keep you safe," Alex said. "But we can't send you alone. We need to find a foster family who can take care of you."

"I can take care of myself," he said in a small voice. "I'm very independent."

Alex smiled, but she seemed almost a little sad. "I know," she said. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you're too young to live completely on your own. You need a grownup."

He looked down at the floor. "Is somebody coming to take me away, then?" he asked.

"That's what I wanted to ask you about," Alex said. She held out her hand, and he tentatively slipped his fingers into hers. "What would you think...if you came to stay with me and my husband for a little while?"

He stared up at her in shock. "Really?" he said.

"Really," she said. "You'll be safe with us. And my husband James is a very kind man, I think you'll like him a lot. He's a doctor and he works with Doctors Without Borders. He'll be here soon so you can meet him."

Spencer bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "What if my mom comes back?" he asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Alex said. "But for right now, James and I can take care of you. We just bought a new house so you'll have your own room, and you can go to a new school. A better school. And I have a whole library of books, you can read all of them if you'd like." She squeezed his hand. "Would that be okay with you?"

He hesitated.

Alex was right. He did need to stay safe. And living with a doctor and an FBI agent was probably the safest place to be, until the coast was clear.

But what if his mother came back to the shabby apartment on Fifth Street, and he was gone? What if she went looking for him and she couldn't find him? What would happen?

Alex rubbed the pad of her thumb lightly over his fingers. "It'll only be temporary," she said softly. "And I promise we'll keep you safe."

He couldn't hesitate forever. "Okay," he said. "I...I can do it."

She smiled at him. "I'm going to go talk to Agent Hotch about it, okay?" she said. "There's a lot of things that we need to make sure are in order. I'll come back and check on you soon." She let go of his hand, almost reluctantly. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you," he said.

"I think we're going to order lunch soon, if I don't come in and check on you before that I think Emily or Penelope will," Alex said. She brushed his hair off his forehead. "Do you want to lie down and take a nap? You look so tired."

"Yeah," he said quietly. And he was, he was so tired, he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, he wanted to sleep forever.

Alex rearranged the pillows on the couch and he laid himself down, pulling his knees to his chest. "I'll come check on you soon, okay?" she said.

"Okay," he echoed. He closed his eyes, and he was in a dead sleep before she had even closed the office door behind her.

* * *

"You're sure you want Garcia to sit in on this meeting?" Hotch said skeptically.

"I'm sure," Alex said. She kept her hands under the table, as if she was keeping something hidden. "If anyone is going to be here for this, I want it to be Penelope and Dave."

He looked over at Rossi, who shrugged. "I have an idea of what's going on, but I think she ought to be the one to explain," he said. Hotch bit back a frustrated sigh.

Garcia hurried into the conference room, closing the door behind her. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I had a lead, and I was following it, and I just totally lost track of time," she said.

"Did the lead pan out?" Rossi asked.

"Unfortunately not," Garcia sighed. She sat down next to Alex and set her iPad down on the table. "But I'm here. I'm ready." She looked over at Alex. "You're sure you're ready?"

"I'm sure," she said. "And I've talked to Spencer, and he agreed."

"Agreed to what?" Hotch asked.

Alex looked from Garcia to Rossi; Penelope nodded in expectant encouragement. "Spencer needs a foster family to protect him in witsec," she said.

"Yes," Hotch said slowly.

"So far there are no options for a foster family willing to take a child in witsec."

"Yes," he said again. "What are you getting at?"

Alex raised her chin. "My husband and I would like to have custody of Spencer," she said.

Hotch sat back in his chair. "Blake, that's really noble of you, but with all due respect, I'm not sure if you're experienced enough to take care of a child, particularly a child affected by trauma," he said. "Just because we haven't found a family willing to take him yet doesn't mean we won't find one. Spencer needs-"

Alex took the item she was hiding under the table- a single photograph- and slid it over to him. Hotch frowned. "What's this?" he asked.

"My son," she said softly.

Hotch picked up the photo. It was a candid shot- taken in a park or a backyard, a younger Alex smiling at a little boy cuddled on her lap as the wind blew her hair back. "You've never mentioned a son," he said.

But the longer he looked at the photograph, the more he knew she was telling the truth. The child looked exactly like her- her pointed chin, her sharp cheekbones, her dark hair and dark eyes.

"Ethan passed away when he was nine," she said.

"I'm so sorry," he said automatically. He looked up at her. "Really. I am."

He thought about bringing up his own knowledge of loss, but thought better of it and kept his mouth shut. Alex gazed at the photo, her eyes soft. "He was diagnosed with a neurological disorder, but they were never able to figure out what exactly was wrong," she said. "But...I was a mother, once."

"She and James are great parents," Rossi said. "Alex took several years off from her career to take care of Ethan himself. I can vouch for them, I think you'd be hard pressed to find a better foster family to care for Spencer."

Hotch handed the photo back to Alex. "I believe you," he said. "Unfortunately, even with the unusual circumstances, certain protocols have to be followed. Spencer has to go to foster parents approved by the state."

Garcia leaned forward. "Oh, oh, that's where I come in," she said. "See, James and Alex-" She paused and looked at Alex. "Maybe you should tell this part."

"James and I have been hoping to adopt," Alex said. "We're partway through our application to become foster parents."

Rossi blinked in surprise. "You didn't tell me that," he said.

"We haven't told most people," Alex said.

"Yeah, and somehow Garcia knew about it," he countered.

Garcia leaned around Alex to look at him. "Don't worry about it, we can talk about that later," she said.

"In any case, Hotch," Alex continued, but she stopped, biting her lip. "James and I could take Spencer. I think he'd be safe with us, and happier than if he ended up lost in the system."

Hotch crossed his arms and studied the back wall, running through his thoughts until they could fall back into neat orderly rows. It was unorthodox, but he had to agree with her. She was right.

"I'll talk to witsec," he said at last. "Maybe they can work something out."

Alex smiled, visibly relieved. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much, Aaron."

* * *

Penelope leaned back in her rolling office chair, frowning as she looked back and forth from one monitor to the other. "Oh, I don't like any of this," she said aloud. "I don't like any of this at all."

One screen displayed all the information she'd found on the Reid family. There was very little about Spencer's father. She had his law school transcript, a record of the cases he'd worked, the bank account where he deposited the child support money he sent to Diana. But the last mention of William Reid was the petition for divorce that he'd filed three years earlier. After the divorce, it was as if he had vanished into thin air. She couldn't find him anywhere.

Diana's affairs were messier. She'd already dug through the traffic violations and the suspended driver's license, the foreclosed house in Vegas and the multiple unpaid bills sent to collections, the letters of warning and probation from her university. Spencer was wrong- she hadn't been on sabbatical, she'd been fired.

But he was right about her illness. Diana's medical records were a rollercoaster of new medications and sporadic therapy sessions, even inpatient treatment at a private institution when Spencer was only four years old. Her college transcripts around the time of her diagnosis proved she was exceptionally bright, but marked with classes with plummeting grades and frequent absences.

What made everything worse was when she started to find the photos.

First, she found the listing for the foreclosed house in Las Vegas. It was a nice little starter home, in a nice suburban neighborhood built in the nineties, but the yard was overgrown and the stucco chipping. The photos of the interior were worse. Clearly Diana had left in a hurry, knowing it was only a matter of time before she and her child were evicted, and the house looked like a bomb had gone off. The appliances were out of date and broken, the dust and grime thick on every surface, trash piled on the floors and counters. Even the room that had to have been Spencer's childhood bedroom was a wreck, the drawers hanging at crooked angles like broken teeth and the covers half ripped from the bed. There were gaps on the shelves where books had been taken, but no signs of toys or posters like any other child might have.

Then she found Spencer's school records. In Las Vegas he seemed like a fairly normal child, smiling hesitantly for class photos. He was smaller than most of his classmates, and on the thin side, but there were no easily seen red flags. His grades were high across the board in every subject, and there was a paper trail documenting the year he was moved from first grade straight to third. Notes from teachers indicated that he was "remarkably bright" and "sweet-natured, but seems anxious," but the paper trail ended shortly after his sixth birthday. There were no medical records after his elementary school physical, no dental records- nothing other than report cards with straight As.

But then she found the news reports from the day Diana left Spencer in the hot car. There were photos, and articles, and that was bad enough. Apparently Diana had forgotten to take Spencer to his daycare, and he'd fallen asleep in the car, and she had left him behind when she parked at the university. A sophomore running late for her next class had noticed the three year old in the backseat and called for help. There was a video that had made the seven o'clock news, of police officers breaking the car window and pulling the limp child out of the backseat.

Penelope closed the video before it could finish. "Oh, I can't do that today, I just can't," she mumbled to herself. It helped knowing that the little boy in the video was safe, sleeping in Hotch's office right that second, but it wasn't much solace knowing that William had swept the incident under the rug, and then three years later left his wife to take care of their child alone, even though he knew how dangerous it could be.

She turned to the other monitor, pressing her mouth into a grim line. This wasn't much better at all. Morgan and Prentiss had brought back Gary Michaels' CPU from his rented house, and she was running diagnostics trying to hack through the files hidden and embedded throughout his hard drive. There was no luck yet- he was clearly better with computers than she had initially thought- but it was only a matter of time before she broke through. At the same time, though, she was dreading what she might find.

Penelope pushed her chair back, picked up her empty cup, and gave it a little shake before she put it back down. She needed to get out of her lair for a little bit, walk around the halls and remind herself that her team was there to fix broken things like this. Once she cleared her head, then she could go back to work.

She headed down the hall towards the break area. Usually she kept drinks for herself in the illegal minifridge she had hidden behind a couple of decommissioned computer towers, but after the week she'd had they were all gone. But she knew Emily kept a secret stash of energy drinks in the back of the breakroom fridge- she wouldn't mind if she took one.

She headed down the hall, her heels clicking brightly on the polished floor, and rounded the corner as the elevators opened and a tall man in a suit walked out. "Hi, sorry, do you know where-" he started to say. He paused. "Hi, Penelope."

She jumped. "Oh my god, James!" she exclaimed. She hugged him hastily. "Oh, it's so nice to see you."

"Nice to see you too," he said. He grinned at her. "I was going to ask if you could tell me where the Behavioral Analysis Unit is, but if it's you, I suppose I can ask if you know where my wife is."

"Yes! I know exactly where she is!" Penelope said. She grabbed his hand. "Come on, come on, I'll take you to her."

She dragged him into the bullpen. Alex sat at her desk, frowning at her computer as she rested her chin on her folded hands. "Dr. Blake, Dr. Blake is here," Penelope announced.

Alex turned towards them. "You're here!" she said, getting up quickly from her desk. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour."

"Traffic was on my side today, apparently, and Penelope walked me in," James said. He paused. "Am I allowed to kiss a working FBI agent?"

Alex laughed. "I'll make an exception for you," she said, and he smiled as he bent to kiss her. She squeezed his forearms. "I'm so glad you're here."

"How are things going?" he asked.

"Good, really good," Alex said. "Hotch is talking to witsec right now. They may be able to approve us even without our application being complete. He's been on the phone for an hour."

"Yikes," James said. "God, I hope it works out." He shifted his weight. "Can I...can I meet him?"

"He's in Hotch's office," Penelope said. "He was taking a nap earlier, but Emily woke him up when she brought him lunch."

Alex took James's hand. "Come on," she said. "You should meet him."

Penelope trailed behind them. After sinking so deep into Reid family records, it would be reassuring to see Spencer for herself.

Alex tapped the door open. Spencer was curled up in the corner of the couch, half asleep, a book open on his knees even though he wasn't reading. He lifted his head as she walked in. "Hi," she said. "Did you get any sleep?"

He shrugged and closed the book. "A little, I think," he said.

Alex switched on the lamp on Hotch's desk, casting a warm glow across the room, and sat down on the edge of the couch. "I have somebody I'd like you to meet," she said. Spencer rubbed his eyes as he sat up. "Spencer, this is my husband, James. James, this is Spencer."

James knelt down so he was eye level with him. "Hi," he said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Hi," Spencer whispered.

James smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "What book are you reading?" he asked.

"Alex let me borrow it," Spencer said, holding up the cover so James could see. "I like it so far."

"Oh, yes, that's one of her favorites," James said. "What's your favorite book?"

Penelope hung back in the doorway, her heart melting as she watched them talk. _Please let this work out for them_ , she thought fervently.

James and Alex had started attending her support group about three months after Ethan passed away. Like most first-timers they were shaky and silent, their eyes red-rimmed as they held hands and listened to everyone else speak. Over time they became more involved, sharing their own story, but as they went their own ways- Alex to Georgetown and later the BAU, James to Doctors Without Borders- they visited less. They had mentioned their intention to foster and adopt at the last meeting, and Penelope couldn't remember the last time she'd seen either of them so hopeful and happy.

She didn't know Spencer as well as she knew the Blakes, but she did know that any child would be lucky to have them as parents. And if Spencer was as smart as his school records claimed, then he would be in excellent hands with Alex.

James listened to Spencer talk attentively, smiling and nodding at the right points to show he was interested. There was a slight rasp to Spencer's voice, and his hazel eyes were ringed in bluish shadows. At one point he paused to cough, and Alex looked at James in silent concern.

"Did Alex tell you what I do for work?" James asked. Spencer shook his head. "I'm a doctor."

"What kind?" Spencer asked.

"I'm an emergency physician," James said. "I usually work in an emergency room, but the past couple of years I've traveled a lot with Doctors Without Borders."

"Where have you traveled?" Spencer asked, eyes wide.

"A lot in West Africa," James said. "And a couple of stints in Russia and Belarus." He looked up at Alex and grinned. "Every time I go to a new country, Alex tries to teach me a new language, but I'll never be as good at languages as she is."

Spencer turned towards Alex. "How many languages do you speak?" he asked.

"A lot," she laughed. "I'm only completely fluent in a couple."

"Oh, she's just being modest," Penelope called from the doorway. "Let's see, how many have you used so far...American Sign Language, Porteguese, Russian, Spanish...pig Latin…"

James laughed. "You used pig Latin for a case?" he teased.

"I suppose I did," Alex said.

Spencer shifted his weight. "Did you know the earliest confirmed use of pig Latin was in 1919, but Shakespeare might have made a reference to it?" he said.

He looked up at Alex. "Love's Labours Lost," she confirmed.

"I didn't know that," James said. Spencer coughed again, and James's smile turned to a concerned frown. "That doesn't sound too good. Have you been coughing like that a lot lately?"

"He was out in the rain for hours last night and it was freezing cold," Alex explained.

James's frown deepened. "Is it okay if I touch you?" he asked. "I want to see if your lymph nodes are swollen." Spencer nodded. James probed the sides of his neck gently, then touched the back of his hand to his forehead. "You're definitely coming down with something, buddy. A cold or the flu, most likely." He leaned back. "Alex, do you know if we're okay to take him home?"

"Not yet," Alex said. "Hotch is still talking to witsec. He was with JJ and her family last night, so they'd probably be okay with him staying with us for today, but beyond that…"

"We won't worry too much yet," James said gently. "But for now, Spencer, you should try to get some rest."

"I have like eight million blankets in my lair, would that be helpful?" Penelope asked, rising up on her toes.

"Yeah, that'll help," James said, smiling at her enthusiasm. "Some water too. Staying hydrated will help you feel better."

"I feel okay," Spencer said, but his shoulders slumped and his little face was pale and pinched in the warm light. He didn't resist as Alex tugged off his shoes and moved the pillows around so he could lie down.

Penelope slipped out of the room. "Poor baby," she said under her breath. At least he was in good hands with the Blakes.

 _But what if they can't keep him?_ she thought, and she pushed it away. She had to stay positive.

* * *

JJ walked into the bullpen and frowned. "What's going on?" she asked.

Emily and Derek both jumped. "Jesus, Jayje, you scared me," Emily said.

"Why are you both staring at the conference room windows?" JJ asked. "The blinds are closed, you can't even see anything."

"Hotch and Rossi are in there talking to witsec," Derek said. "They're trying to figure out what to do with Spencer."

"Oh, god, have they not found a foster family to take him yet?" JJ asked. She sat down on the edge of her desk. "Will said we could take him, but we're not approved foster parents. And I have no idea how we could take care of him, and Henry, and both keep working, and-"

Emily and Derek exchanged a look. She paused. "What was that?" she demanded.

"What was what?" Emily asked.

"That- that look you just gave each other," she said, pointing from one to the other. "You guys know something that I don't. Spill."

Derek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "There's someone in the department who was already getting approved as a foster parent," he said. "And you'll never guess who it is."

"Garcia," JJ said. Emily shook her head. "Anderson. One of you. Hotch? Rossi?"

Emily laughed. "Can you imagine Rossi raising a child?" she said.

"You have to tell me who it is," JJ said. "Who am I missing? Blake?" Derek raised an eyebrow. "Oh my god. Blake? Alex is a foster parent?"

"She and her husband are in the middle of their foster-to-adopt application," Emily said.

JJ tilted her head. "I never would have guessed," she said. "Although she's really good with Henry and Jack. She'd be a good mom."

"See, that's the other thing," Derek said. "Did you know that she had a son?"

JJ blinked. "I asked her once if she had a child, and she said no," she said. "She-" She paused. "Had. She had a son?"

"He died when he was nine years old," Emily said. "He had some kind of neurological disorder. It's why she stayed away from the bureau for so long, she was a stay at home mom to a terminally ill child."

"Oh my god," JJ breathed. "She never...I had no idea."

"Rossi said she never talks about him," Derek said. "It's too painful for her."

Penelope walked briskly into the bullpen, a bottle of water in one hand and a bottle of gatorade in the other. "Garcia, did you know about this?" JJ said.

"About what?"

"Blake had a son," Emily said.

"Ethan? Oh, yes, I know about Ethan," Penelope said. "And that she and James are trying to adopt. You guys have to keep up."

The conference room door opened and JJ slid off her desk as Hotch and Rossi walked out, both looking slightly confused. "Any updates?" Derek asked.

"I'm...I'm not sure," Rossi said. "I was mid-sentence when they suddenly said everything was fine and hung up."

"Well, what does that mean?" Emily pressed.

"Not a clue," Hotch said. "Where's Blake?"

"Oh, she and James are in your office with Spencer, the little nugget is under the weather," Penelope said. "Why? Should I go get her?"

"I think that's a good idea," Rossi said. Penelope nodded and scurried away quickly, her heels clicking.

"Do we have any updates on Michaels?" Hotch asked.

Derek shook his head. "Not much," he said. "It looks like he's left the city in a hurry. We've got an APB out on his vehicle and a detail watching his house, but who knows if that'll turn anything up. We'll have to hope that he comes back at some point."

"And when Michaels is found, then what happens to the kid?" Rossi asked.

"Hopefully we find his mother, or at least some relative willing to take him," Emily shrugged.

JJ turned around at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and immediately stood up straighter at the sight of Erin Strauss. "Where's Blake?" Strauss asked without preamble.

"She's in my office, she should be on her way out," Hotch said.

"Is there something we can help you with, Erin?" Rossi asked.

She squared her shoulders. "I'd like Blake to be here for this," she said. "It's about the Riley Jenkins case, but it concerns her."

Alex and Garcia walked out of Hotch's office, and Alex immediately frowned at the sight of Strauss. "What's going on?" she asked.

Strauss cleared her throat. "I understand there's a child involved in the Riley Jenkins case, and he needs to go into witsec," she said. "And that you and your husband would like temporary custody."

Alex raised her chin. "That's correct," she said. "I understand that an agent getting personally involved in a case is unusual, but-"

"I've called in a few favors," Strauss interrupted. "They've approved the fostering license for you and James. You'll be able to take the child home with you today."

All the fight seemed to fall from Alex's shoulders. "Erin, I…" she started to say. "Thank you."

"I've owed you for a very long time, Alex," she said. "Hopefully this will help put a few things in the past."

JJ looked at Emily and Derek, raising her eyebrows in a question; they shrugged back, seemingly equally confused. "Thank you, Erin," Alex said.

Strauss seemed like she wanted to say something else, but she cleared her throat brusquely instead. "Now, witsec will still need to help you get him settled and place him with a new identity, and that I have no control over, but-" she started to say.

"I've already discussed that with Garcia and with James, we can take care of that," Alex said. "Can I...can I go tell him?"

"Absolutely," Hotch said. "You should tell him. And take him home."

* * *

Alex's heart beat too fast against her ribs as she slipped into Hotch's office. The lamp was still on, making the room seem a little safer and warmer, and cast soft shadows on the floor. Spencer slept on the couch, his knees tucked into his chest and his thumb in his mouth. One of Penelope's fleece blankets covered him securely. James sat next to him in Hotch's desk chair, thumbing through her well-worn copy of Jane Eyre. He looked up at her and smiled as she closed the door behind her. "I haven't read this since you made me read it in college," he said. He paused. "Everything okay?"

She nodded. "We can, um...we can take him home," she whispered. "He's ours. For the time being, at least."

James nearly dropped the book. "You're sure?" he said. She nodded. "Oh my god. I can't believe it."

She held up the stack of papers Penelope had put together for them. "We're all set," she said. "Well, maybe not all set. We'll have to figure out school, and putting his room together, and I don't think he has any warm clothes-"

"One step at a time," James said. "Right now we'll just worry about talking to him about it, and getting him home. Are you still sure about...about everything?"

"I'm sure, as long as you are," she said. "It really will be the safest option, giving him an already established identity."

He squeezed her hand. "Let's wake him up and tell him, then," he said.

Alex sat down on the edge of the couch and brushed Spencer's hair back from his hot forehead. "Hi, sweetheart," she called softly. "Wake up." Spencer blinked sluggishly, twisting around so he was lying on his back. Alex smiled at him. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," he mumbled around his thumb still in his mouth. That had to be a lie, he was burning up and he seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes open.

"We wanted to talk to you about something," James said.

Spencer pushed himself into a sitting position. The pillow had left lines on his reddened cheek and his hair was a tangled mess. "What's going on?" he asked as he pulled his thumb out of his mouth. "Did you find Mr. Michaels?"

"Not yet," Alex said. "But...we found out that James and I have been approved as foster parents. We're going to take you home with us, and you'll live with us until he's been found and we can find a more permanent place for you."

"When you find my mom?" Spencer supplied hopefully.

"Yes," Alex said. "But for now we'll take care of you."

Spencer didn't say anything, but he seemed relieved at that, leaning back against the couch, as if he'd been stressing himself out trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. "Do I still qualify for the witness protection program?" he asked. "Do I have to relocate?"

"Yes and no," Alex said. "We won't be relocating. But we are going to make some changes to your identity."

"We'll get your hair cut, maybe change the color," James said. "You'll go to a different school, we'll get you all new clothes."

"What about my name?" he asked. "Do I have to change that too?"

Alex looked at James. "We can still call you Spencer at home," she said. "But you'll need a new name for everybody else. And you'll need to refer to us as your parents. We can be Mom and Dad, or-"

He shrank back. "I can't call you Mom," he said in a small voice. "My mom...Mommy is still going to come back."

"That's okay," James said quickly. "You don't have to call her that. You can call her Mama, or Mum, or she can help you find something in one of her languages. And when we're home, you can just call us James and Alex, that's just fine."

Spencer nodded, his lower lip trembling. "What's my name going to be?" he asked.

Alex's fingers tightened around the papers in her hand. It had been so easy for Penelope to fix it, to swap photos and change details and put everything together. It didn't make it much easier for her.

She relaxed her grip and held the papers out so he could see- birth certificate, passport, social security card.

"Your name will be Ethan Blake," she said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!
> 
> And the first arc is finished!! Now I can start the adjustment arc, with the Blakes and Spencer adjusting to being a family. They really have their work cut out for them and I AM SO EXCITED TO WRITE IT!!
> 
> please let me know what you think!! I'd love to hear it!!


	11. vita non est vivere, sed valera vita est part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the second arc. Spencer has to adjust to living with the Blakes. The Blakes adjust to having a child again.

_vita non est vivere, sed valera vita est_

_(life is not about living, but to live a good life)_

* * *

It was sunny the day they brought Ethan home from the hospital. James had driven slower and more carefully than he'd ever driven in his life, glancing into the rearview mirror whenever he could to check on his happy, exhausted wife as she gazed at their new baby son, watching him scrunch his little nose while he slept. He never thought he could love somebody so much, and simultaneously he'd never been so scared in his life.

Today it was gray and gloomy, rain sluicing against the windshield. James drove carefully through the congested traffic leading them away from Quantico. Alex sat next to him, and every few minutes she looked back at the child in the backseat. "Is he asleep?" he asked quietly.

"I think so," she said.

"Good. He needs it."

He glanced in the rearview mirror. Spencer looked so small alone back there, Henry's ill-fitting jacket pulling tight over his chest and his long hair hanging over his face. Penelope had let them take her fleece blanket along with them and it covered most of him. Alex twisted around to get a better look, her mouth tugging down in a stressed frown.

"What are you thinking?" James asked.

She sank back in her seat and sighed, watching the windshield wipers move. "His room's not ready," she said. "I thought we had a couple more months before we'd get approved."

"That's okay," James reassured her. "We'll let him pick out his own things, then, when he's feeling better. For now we'll get him set up in the guest room."

"We need to figure out school, too," she said, staring straight ahead at the road. "And get him some clothes, I don't think he has much. And witsec still needs us to figure out a way to change his appearance."

James reached over and squeezed her knee. "Hey, hey, one thing at a time," he said. Alex glanced over at him and tried to smile. "Right now, let's just get him home, okay?"

"Okay," she echoed.

He knew that was easier said than done. He knew that Alex's mind was running through every possible scenario, every possible outcome, comparing the unknown to the things she did know. She was stressing herself out, he could tell, and that would be the worst thing she could for herself or for Spencer.

At least the drive to their new house was shorter than the old one. It was a pleasant, quiet neighborhood, shaded with big oak trees and lined in neat flower-trimmed sidewalks, even though February in Virginia left the trees barren and the flowers buried under snow. James pulled into the garage and parked her car next to his, and they sat there in the thick silence for a moment.

"You ready?" he asked. After a moment, she nodded.

He got out of the car and opened up the back door; Spencer raised his head sleepily. "Hey, buddy, you fall asleep?" James asked, smiling at him. Spencer scrunched his nose, as if he wasn't sure of the answer. He reached around to unbuckle his seatbelt, then lifted him out of the car. Spencer gave a little squeak of protest, but he didn't fight back. "It's okay. I got ya."

Alex reached around him to pick up the battered suitcase JJ had handed off to her. James adjusted Spencer on his hip. "Jesus, it's freezing out here," he said. "Let's get you inside."

The security alarm sounded as soon as Alex unlocked the door, sharp and piercing, and Spencer covered his ears and hid his face in James's shoulder. Alex punched in the code and switched on the lights as James nudged the door closed and set Spencer carefully down on the floor. "Welcome home, kiddo," he said.

Spencer looked around at his new surroundings almost in a daze. James fiddled with the thermostat and turned up the heat. "We just moved here a few months ago, there's still a few boxes left that we need to unpack," Alex explained. Spencer nodded.

James tugged lightly on Spencer's jacket and pulled it off of him. His baggy jeans were too long, puddling over his dirty sneakers, and his plain tee shirt was paper thin and hanging off his shoulders. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

Spencer rubbed his eyes. "I'm okay," he said in a small voice.

Alex brushed his hair away and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "You feel really warm, sweetheart," she said. "Do you want to go lie down? It's been a long day, some rest could do you some good."

He nodded hesitantly. Alex took him by the hand and walked him down the hallway to the stairs.

James pulled off his coat and tossed it with Spencer's borrowed jacket in the closet, then sank down on the living room couch with a heavy sigh. When he woke up that morning he had no idea he would end the day with a child in his house. A sick child, at that, and while Alex hadn't given him the full story yet, he knew enough that he was a traumatized child too.

All he could do was take it slowly. One thing at a time. He couldn't get ahead of himself. Later he could worry about other things, the big things. Right now he had a sick kid that needed somebody to help him feel better. And he could handle that.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed out a list in the notes app. After a moment of hesitation, he made a call. He'd done a lot of favors for a lot of other people over the years, now was as good a time as any to start calling in a few of his own.

He headed up the stairs to the master bedroom and pulled the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet in their bathroom, then walked down to the guest room. It was small- just a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser- but at least the unpacked boxes were hidden in the closet so they weren't stacked in the middle of the floor. It would do until they could get the actual room they'd chosen for a hypothetical child fixed up.

Spencer sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. Alex had taken his sneakers off and set them on the floor, and she was talking to him quietly but he wasn't making eye contact with her.

"Hey, I grabbed this," James said, holding up the thermometer from the medicine cabinet. Alex took a step back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I figured we should see how you're doing."

Spencer shrank back. "Is it the under the tongue kind?" he asked.

"Nope, just the ear kind," James said as he uncapped it. "Do you not like the tongue kind?"

Spencer looked down at his hands. He was pale, but the fever flush was beginning to rise on his sharp cheekbones. "My stomach hurts," he said.

"What kind of hurt? Like you're going to throw up?" James asked. Spencer nodded reluctantly. That didn't bode well, but it did confirm his suspicions that he was coming down with something. "Well, don't worry about it right this second. I'm just going to set this in your ear. Hold still."

Spencer held very still and held his breath as James held the thermometer to his ear. "How bad is it?" Alex asked as soon as it beeped.

"Could be worse," James said. He capped the thermometer and set it on the nightstand, then rested his hand lightly on Spencer's shoulder. "All right, buddy. What sounds better right now- sleep, or something to eat? You look pretty tired, but eating a little something might help settle your system."

Spencer thought it over, still avoiding eye contact. He pulled at the skin around his thumbnail, sharp and rhythmic. "I think I'm tired," he said at last.

James smiled at him. "Let's go with that then," he said. "You go change, okay? I'm going to talk to Alex for a second."

He gave Spencer's shoulder a last gentle squeeze and beckoned to Alex; he ushered her into the hallway and closed the door behind them. "Well?" Alex said, crossing her arms. "What are you thinking? Is he okay?"

"He'll be fine," he reassured her. "He's got a bit of a fever. He's definitely got some kind of flu coming on. Nothing to be too concerned about, as far as I can tell. Honestly, after everything he's been through in the past forty-eight hours, plus getting stuck in the cold, I would be shocked if he wasn't feeling under the weather."

"What can we do?" Alex asked.

"Well…" James said. He pulled out his phone, opened the note he'd just written, and texted it to her. Alex frowned as she took out her phone. "I just sent you a list."

"A list of what?"

"Go shopping, pick up a few things he'll need right now," James said. "And I called in a prescription for him, it should be ready by the time you get there."

Her jaw dropped. "You want me to leave?" she said.

"I need you to get your thoughts in order," he said softly. He squeezed her upper arms lightly. "I'm giving you a task to do. Something that's going to help him. And you're my introvert, I know you need some time to yourself to recharge. It's been a rough day for you too."

She wilted at that, her mouth pressing together tightly. "Will you let me know if anything happens?" she said.

"Al, I bet money he's just going to sleep the whole time you're gone," James said. He squeezed her arms again and leaned to kiss her forehead. "I'll stay with him, and I'll text you if anything changes. I promise."

The door tapped open and Alex took a step back. "Hi, sweetheart," she said, pushing her hair out of her face. "Are you okay?"

Spencer nodded. He looked exhausted, his eyes dull and ringed in purplish shadows. His pajamas were threadbare and faded, and not nearly warm enough for winter. "I'm okay," he echoed.

Alex smiled at him. "Let's get you to bed," she said. She picked him up and he leaned his head on her shoulder. James's heart ached at the sight of her half-hidden wistful smile.

She set Spencer down on the bed and pulled the covers up around him, tucking him in securely. "Sleep well," she said. "I'm going to go out and run some errands, but you tell James if you need anything at all while I'm gone, okay?"

Spencer nodded. Alex smoothed the comforter over his chest, lingering as if she wanted to say something else, but after a moment she got up and walked out of the room, leaving the door cracked.

"You promise you'll call if anything changes?" she asked.

"Immediately," he said. "Go. Go be useful. I know that'll make you feel better."

She smiled at him. "Sometimes I forget how well you know me," she said.

He watched her walk down the hall, and as her footsteps died down on the stairs he exhaled slowly. This was fine. Everything was fine. They could do this. They just had to take it one step ahead at a time, and not get ahead of themselves.

* * *

Alex let herself into the house, trying to stay quiet in case Spencer was still sleeping. It was dark now, and the temperature outside had dropped dramatically. She shook the snow out of her hair as she walked into the dark kitchen and set her bags down on the counter.

"Hey, I thought I heard you come in," James said as he followed her into the kitchen and turned on the lights. He'd traded the dark gray suit he'd worn to his meeting in the city for black joggers and an old tee shirt from a fundraiser 10K race. He kissed her temple as she started unpacking the first bag. "Shit, is it that cold outside? There's snow in your hair."

"It's freezing," she said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the whole street is iced over in the morning." She wadded up the plastic carrier bag and set it aside. "How is he?"

"Sleeping," James said. "Or, if I'm being more accurate...snoring. He's got a lot of congestion."

"Has his fever gone down?"

"Holding steady," he said. "He threw up a little bit ago, I got him some water and he went right back to sleep. Did you pick up the prescription I called in?" She handed him the little paper bag. "Perfect. I got it in the bubblegum flavor. I haven't seen a kid yet who doesn't like the bubblegum flavor."

"Should we take him to an actual doctor to be checked out?" she asked.

James feigned shock. "Am I not an actual doctor to you?" he said. She rolled her eyes. "Don't give me that look, I know what you mean. We can take him in to a pediatrician for a full physical once he feels better. I'll call in a favor." He paused. "I don't suppose Penelope's found his medical records, has she?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?"

She wadded up another empty carrier bag. "I mean, his last doctor's appointment was when he was six and about to start first grade," she said. "He hasn't seen a doctor since. I don't think he's ever seen a dentist."

James whistled. "Well, fuck," he said. He frowned and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Lex, what am I missing here?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You said he needed to be put into witsec," he said. "What's going on? Is this an abuse case, or-"

She sighed. "Not exactly," she said. "It's a long story."

James pushed himself up and switched on the coffeemaker. "I've got time," he said.

She sketched all of it out, as much as she could share with him- interviewing Spencer at his school, his frantic phone call after finding Riley's body and letting him fall asleep in her lap at the crime scene, Hotch and Morgan taking him home and finding out that not only was Michaels waiting for him, but that he was living alone in a biohazard apartment after months of neglect from his missing mother.

James tapped his fingers against his empty coffee cup. "Jesus," he breathed. "That poor little kid."

Alex leaned her head in her hand, exhaustion weighing heavy on her shoulders. "He's in a really bad place," she confessed. "I saw the photos from the apartment. It wasn't livable. No heat, no food, completely filthy-"

"And no parent," James said. "No wonder he's so standoffish. He's terrified."

Alex laced her fingers together and rested her chin on her hands. "What do you think?" she asked. "Have we gotten in over our heads?"

He sort of smiled. "The opposite," he said. "I think we're right where we need to be. We've both been around sick kids, traumatized kids. And if someone needs to keep him physically safe, he's literally living with an FBI agent."

Alex looked down at the dregs of coffee in her mug. "It's not permanent," she said. "We can't...we shouldn't get too attached. Most likely he'll be with us for a few weeks, a few months at best. If we find Michaels, he doesn't need to stay in witsec. If we find his mother, or another relative willing to take him, most likely they'll reunite them and relocate them together."

For some reason saying it aloud made her sad. And it shouldn't make her sad. Whatever happened needed to be the best thing for Spencer. Most likely that best thing would be finding his biological mother. He was clearly attached to her.

James sat up. "You hear that?" he said.

Alex nodded and got up quickly. "I'll check on him," she said.

The door to the bedroom was partially open, letting light spill from the hallway, but it was still too dark. Spencer was a little lump under the covers, his back turned towards her, but she could still hear him crying into his pillow, half strangled like he was trying to muffle the sound.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," she soothed as she sat down beside him and switched on the bedside lamp. "Are you all right?"

He rolled over enough to look up at her, his tangled hair plastered to his reddened, damp cheeks. His sobs caught sharply in his throat and he broke into a cough. "I know, I know," she said softly. "Try to take a deep breath, darling."

"Just...just a bad dream," he rasped, his chest heaving. "'m sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about."

She didn't hear James come in until he ripped open the packaging in his hand. "This might help a little bit," he said, setting the plastic down on the dresser. He plugged the nightlight into the nearest outlet. "I've got some medicine for you too, kiddo. It's the liquid kind. Do you like bubblegum?"

Alex stroked Spencer's hair back from his forehead as he smiled tentatively. "Yeah," he said.

"See, Lex, what'd I tell you?" James grinned. "Everybody likes bubblegum. Can you sit up for me for a second?"

Spencer struggled to push himself up; Alex slid her hand behind his narrow back and helped him, rearranging the pillows. James measured out thick medicine into a cup. "Drink all of that, and then some water," he said. Spencer obeyed.

Alex kept her hand against his back. For a moment she desperately wanted to lift him onto her lap and hug him tight and kiss his cheeks, but she held back. She didn't want to spook him.

"Good job, buddy," James said as he took the empty water cup. "Do you want more? Do you need anything else?" Spencer shook his head slowly. "You want to go back to sleep?"

"Uh-huh," he whispered.

Alex shifted the covers so he could lie down and tucked them around him tightly. "Sweet dreams," she said. "Call us if you need us."

She bent over and pressed a light kiss to his forehead. Spencer blinked up at her sleepily, his fist pressed against his jaw. "G'night," he mumbled, and he seemed to drift off right before her eyes.

She didn't realize how long she sat there, watching him sleep, until James squeezed her shoulder. "Let him rest," he whispered. "He'll still be there in the morning."

"I know," she said. Spencer shifted around, his thumb wending its way to his mouth, and she rested her hand on his chest until he settled back down. "I know."

* * *

He could hear low voices in the hallway and he strained to listen. Sleepiness still pulled at him, enough that he kept his eyes closed, but he could hear their indistinct conversation. It was almost nice somehow. The Blake house was quiet compared to the apartment, but it was a different kind of quiet from the silent static of Henry's playroom, something softer and warmer.

The bed was too big, swallowing him up in layers of soft blankets as he sank into the mattress. It had been a long time since he'd gotten to sleep in a bed like this. The couch at the apartment was rock hard and smelled like dust and mildew; the only bed hadn't been much better. But that was where he lived with his mother, and for a moment the shameful disloyalty swept over him like a wave.

He swallowed hard and instantly regretted it. It felt like broken glass, and for a second he pressed his hands to his throat. He was too hot now too, and the blankets that had been cozy a moment ago felt oppressive and heavy, so he tried to push them away but his arms didn't seem to have any strength left.

The door tapped open and he forced himself to sit up, the room tilting and swimming around him. "Hey, kiddo, are you awake?" James said.

He rubbed his eyes. "Yeah," he rasped.

"Your throat's still pretty sore, isn't it?" James said sympathetically. Spencer nodded, not willing to attempt speaking again.

Alex touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "James, he's still burning up," she said quietly. "Should we take him to the doctor? Before we would always-"

She broke off midsentence. "We can handle it," he said. He squeezed Spencer's thin upper arm gently. "We'll take it easy while Alex is at work, okay?"

He nodded. Alex brushed his tangled hair back. "I'll be home around six," she said. "Get plenty of sleep, drink lots of water." She touched her fingertips lightly to his chin, smiling almost wistfully at him. "Let James know if there's anything you need. I'll be home really soon."

She kissed James goodbye and left the room. Spencer curled himself back against the headboard, making himself small as the grownups said their goodbyes. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now.

"All right, buddy," James said. "Do you want to stay up here, or do you want to go down to the living room?"

He shrugged. Was there an answer he was supposed to give? What was James expecting him to pick?

"How about this?" James said gently. "Alex picked up some new pajamas for you, they're in the bathroom. You get changed, and then we'll hang out in the living room and you can watch movies all day. Sound good?"

He nodded. James helped him slide down from the bed and caught him by the arm when his knees buckled. "Take it easy," he said. "Bathroom's right across the hall. Come downstairs whenever you're ready."

He walked slowly to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. His whole body hurt, soreness sinking deep into his bones, and his chest ached from coughing. A headache was beginning to throb in his temples.

The clothes Alex had picked out for him were set on the counter. The pajamas were a little big, just enough to be comfortable, and the fabric was soft against his skin. He couldn't remember the last time he had brand new pajamas.

He ventured down the unfamiliar hallway, looking for the stairs, and made his way down carefully, clinging tightly to the railing. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and for a moment he sat down on the steps and closed his eyes until it passed.

He peeked around the corner into the living room. The TV was turned on, there were blankets and pillows propped up on the couch, and there was a cup with a straw waiting for him on the end table. "Go get comfortable," James called from the kitchen. "Medicine first, then water. Are you hungry? I can make you something. And you can put whatever you want on the TV."

"Okay," Spencer said in a small voice. Anxiety welled in the pit of his stomach, and he wanted to go hide himself away somewhere. He could get through this fine on his own, just like he always had. He didn't need to be fussed over. His mom never fussed over him when he was sick.

But he climbed up on the couch, and James draped a light blanket around him, and somehow it was reassuring to have someone looking out for him, even if it was a stranger.

* * *

JJ peered around the corner of the break area and down the hallway, trying to see if anyone was coming, and jumped at the sound of a sudden voice. "Who are you looking for?" Emily asked.

"Jesus, don't scare me like that," JJ said irritably.

Emily cackled as she opened the fridge. "Sorry," she said, then paused and made a face. "Oh, come on. Did Morgan eat my leftovers from yesterday?"

"You're really going to have cold lo mein for breakfast?" JJ said. "Don't you have anything to eat in your own house?"

"Jayje, you've been to my apartment," Emily said. "You know for a fact that if it's not microwaveable, it's not in my kitchen." She closed the fridge with a satisfying _clunk_. "I'll just drink coffee and get a breakfast sandwich out of the vending machine."

"Please don't do that, you don't know how long those have been in there."

Derek rounded the corner, coffee cup in hand. "Hey, Hotch called us in for a meeting in ten," he said. "What are you guys doing?"

"I'm going to eat a knockoff egg McMuffin out of the vending machine, but I don't know what JJ is doing," Emily said. She raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing, JJ?"

JJ sighed heavily. "Trying to see if Alex is coming in today," she confessed.

"I'm sure she's on her way in," Derek said, leaning back against the kitchenette countertop. "Why wouldn't she be? Did Hotch give her some time off?"

"I wouldn't be surprised, since she's got the kid at home now," Emily said.

"It's just…" Her voice trailed off. "Don't you guys feel a little...awkward?"

"No, why?" Emily said. "Do you feel awkward?"

JJ bit her lip. It was different for them. They didn't have kids. They hadn't spent the last year and change talking about their kids, showing off photos, complaining about the mischief their kids had gotten into, all the while telling Alex how lucky she was that she didn't have a child to worry about. And all the while Alex was silently mourning for her little boy, probably willing to kill to have a chance to have one more day with him.

"It's just a lot," she said at last.

"I wonder how the kid is doing," Derek said. "He's been put through the wringer in the past forty-eight hours."

"And we still don't have anything on Michaels, or his mother," Emily added.

"Garcia's doing her best, but...yeah," Derek admitted. "No sign of either of them."

JJ took a step back as Alex walked in, her coat over her arm and her bag slung over her shoulder. "Good morning," she said. She was smiling, her eyes brighter than JJ had seen her before. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"

"Not yet, but Hotch wants us to come for a meeting in the conference room in five minutes," Emily said. "How's Spencer doing? Is he settling in okay?"

"He's doing all right," Alex said. "He's down with a pretty bad case of the flu, but James has some time before he starts work at the hospital, so he's staying home with him."

"Poor kid," Derek said. "That's gotta suck. You tell him we're all thinking of him, okay?"

"I will," Alex said. She glanced up at the closed conference room door. "I'll see you guys up there in a second."

She headed towards the bullpen, and JJ followed her. "Hey," she said, and Alex paused, waiting for her to catch up. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Alex said, blinking in surprise. "Everything's fine. Spencer's pretty miserable right now, but James says he'll be fine in a week or so." She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

JJ held her breath, measuring her words before she spoke. "I wanted to apologize," she said in a low voice. "For...before. I said a lot of really thoughtless things about...about being a parent, and I just want to apologize. If I'd have known-"

"If you'd have known, you would have walked on eggshells around me," Alex said. Some of the brightness had dimmed in her brown eyes. "It's fine."

"You could have told us," JJ said.

"We all grieve in our own ways," Alex said quietly. "I chose not to talk about Ethan. It was my decision. It's fine."

"But it still couldn't have made it easy for you to hear me talk about Henry all the time," JJ said.

Alex was silent for a moment. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and met JJ's gaze. "When people find out you've lost a child, they look at you in this certain way, like you're something fragile about to crack," she said at last. "You don't need to look at me like that. I'm not breakable." She offered a tense smile. "I'll see you in the meeting."

She walked to her desk, and JJ stood still, watching her leave.

* * *

He was half asleep on the couch, in the old apartment. The thin lumpy pillow scratched against his cheek and the well-worn sheet draped over him did nothing to warm him up. The fabric smelled like it hadn't been washed in years, but it was familiar, and the ancient TV struggled to play a sitcom rerun.

He huddled in a smaller, tighter ball under the sheet. There was an emptiness in his chest, like he'd been hollowed out and cast aside. It was sort of like loneliness, except he wasn't sure if anyone was missing him.

Someone tapped sharply on the window and he pushed himself to sit up. He couldn't see through the thick layers of packing tape and newspapers, and his heart pounded against his ribs.

"Spencer!"

His heart skipped a beat. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the window, grabbing at the newspaper pages made brittle in the sun. They tore away in satisfying rips, falling around him like confetti.

"Mom?" he breathed.

His mother stood on the other side of the window, pressing her palms to the glass, smiling at him. "Spencer, I'm home," she said. "Let me in!"

"Mommy, I knew you'd come back," he said.

"Of course I'd come back, I could never leave my baby behind," she said. "Let me in, I lost my keys, you need to let me in."

He stumbled to the front door, fumbling to flip the lock. "I missed you!" he said. "I missed you so much, Mommy, I-"

He stopped. His mother wasn't at the door.

"Hey, Spencer. You wanna play? Chess tables are open."

His throat worked convulsively. He couldn't speak.

"Hey, guess what? I just got a brand new puppy."

Dark green jacket. Baseball cap. Black sneakers.

"You wanna come see him?"

Spencer looked back wildly at the window. He'd torn a gash in the newspaper like a wound, letting moonlight pour into the dark room. His mother was gone.

Gary Michaels smiled at him, his eyes lost behind the glint of the streetlamp on his glasses. It was beginning to rain, dripping from the brim of his baseball cap. "Spencer, let's go," he said, and he placed his hand on his narrow shoulder, the pad of his thumb massaging the base of his neck.

Spencer ran. He wasn't wearing any shoes, or a jacket, but he didn't care. Rain flooded him, freezing his already ice-cold skin, and he stumbled down the stairs and down the street as fast as he could, and he ran until-

He tripped over something soft and still warm, and even with the rain blurring his vision he saw pale white skin and frozen blue eyes and dark blood on pale blond curls, and he screamed. He screamed at the top of his lungs, until it hurt, until it felt like broken glass was cutting into his throat.

"Spencer, it's okay, sweetheart, it's okay."

He felt hands gripping him and he fought back, kicking and striking out, trying to shake off whoever it was. He kept screaming but no sound came out so he tried to scream harder, oxygen evaporating in his lungs.

"Spencer, wake up, it's just a bad dream. You're safe, I promise."

He didn't have the strength to fight back anymore, and he didn't have the voice to scream.

"Take a deep breath for me, Spencer. Deep breath."

He obeyed despite himself, and dimly he realized that the person holding him wasn't Gary Michaels, and it wasn't his mother either.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here. No one's going to hurt you."

He forced his eyes to open and his breath broke in a startled little gasp, his hands clutching involuntarily at Alex's sleeve. She held him tightly on her lap, his head tucked against her shoulder, and she rocked him a little bit.

He was on the couch in the Blakes' living room. The blinds were closed and the curtains drawn, and the lamps cast warm homey glows around him. Alex was still in her work clothes and her hair brushed against his cheek as she rocked him. He was crying, and he didn't know why he was crying, or who he was crying for.

"It's okay, you're okay," she was murmuring, her chin resting against the top of his head. "I've got you. No one's going to hurt you."

He gripped her shirt tightly and kept crying steadily, as if he couldn't stop- and maybe he couldn't. Alex kept whispering soft gentle things into his hair until he began to quiet, and he wrapped his arms tight around her neck.

"It was just a bad dream," she whispered. "Just a bad dream, dearest. I've got you."

For some reason that seemed to soothe him. He hid his face against the crook of her neck as his sobs died down, and she kept stroking his hair, and his last memory before he fell asleep was of Alex and James talking in their low gentle voices as he drifted off again, hoping the memory of his dream would fade away like smoke from a snuffed candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second arc has officially begun!!!
> 
> This is the sort of transition chapter, but next chapter we get to see them really start to adjust. I'm so excited to finally get to this point!!

**Author's Note:**

> here it is at last, the Spencer Blake AU!!!
> 
> I have a LOT planned for this. The setup is pretty specific, so there first couple of chapters are laying the foundation for the rest of the fic, but I promise the payoff will be worth it!
> 
> My tumblr is themetaphorgirl if you'd like to chat! And please let me know what you think of this fic!!
> 
> Thanks to Maeve, Maddy, and Brenna for letting me scream about this fic so much!!
> 
> Next update will be on Monday!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [a short but sweet interaction [emphasis on sweet]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589000) by [scribble_stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribble_stars/pseuds/scribble_stars)




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